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An Illustrated Monthly 

Vol. XLV. 

Xon&on : 




by Google 

Original from 



ACHIEVEMENT, MY BEST. A Symposium of the Opinions of Leading Athletes and Champion 

Exponents of Outdoor Sports and Pastimes on Their Most Memorable Exploits 513 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings. 


Illustrations by J. R. Skelton. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

ARTS AND THE ARTFUL F. Frankfort Moore. 494 

Illustrations by Dudley Hardy, R.I. 


Illustrations by Chas. Grave. 

BARGAIN, THE Violet M. Methley. 336 

Illustrations by Byam Shaw. 



Part I. — Concerning Cuemanship and Plain-Ball Strokes 200 

Part II.— Some Screw and Side Strokes 345 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

BITS OF LIFE 0. Henry. 

L— The Pendulum 5 22 

II.— The Count and the Wedding Guest 5 2 5 

III.— The Last Leaf 7°4 

Illustrations by A. K. Mac Donald. 

BLACKBALLED . . . . Austin Philips. 565 

Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 

BOTANY, NONSENSE. Humour in Doy leys 1 *4 

BOY IN BLUE, THE Winifred Graham. 18 

Illustrations by Ruby Lind. 


CHINESE MIRROR, THE Horace A. VacheU. 71 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations by Bert Thomas. 
CURE FOR COQUETTES, A Annesley Kenealy. 174 

Illustrations by Tom Peddie. 

CURIOSITIES 119, 2 39. 359. 479» 599» 719 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

DISAPPEARING TRICK, THE w - Pelt Rid Z c ' 2 & 

Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 
DIVIDING LINE, THE Frank E. Verney. 653 

Illustrations by Christopher Clarke, R.I. 
DOCTORING, THE HUMOURS OF Norman Porritt, M.R.C.S. 4<* 

Illustrations by Bert Thomas. 


INDEX. in. 



Illustrations by Eraest A Aris. 


Illustrations by Charles Crombie. 

DREAMS : The Latest Views of Science William Brown, M.A., D.Sc. S3 

Illustrations by Vernon Anson. 

EAST A-CALLIN', THE .. Arthur Morrison. 262 

Illustrations by Charles Crombie. 

FOLLY OF FEODORA, THE Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 393 

Illustrations by F. Wiles. 

FOR THE CAUSE Richard Marsh. 430 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 

FROM THE PIT L.J. Beeston. 621 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 

GARDENING EXPERIMENTS, SOME .. .. S. Leonard Bastin. 588 

Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. 


GRETA IN THE TOWER Harold Steevens. 311 

Illustrations by John Cameron. 


Illustrations by Christopher Clarke, R.I. 


Illustrations by J. Campbell. 

ILLUSIONS, MY David Devant. 24 

Illustrations by H. K. Elcock. 


Illustrations from Old Prints. 

JOB OF WORK, A P. G. Wcdehouse. 52 

Illustrations by E. H. Shepard. 

" JOE GARGERY " And His Recollections of Dickens T. Andrew Richards. 464 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

JUDITH LEE: PAGES FROM HER LIFE. The Affair of the Montagu Diamonds. Richard Marsh. 190 

Illustrations by J. R. Skelton. 

LIFE-LIKE Martin Swayne. 206 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 

LITTLE STRANGER, THE Norman Porritt, M.R.C.S. 665 

Illustrations by Miss L. Hocknell. 


Illustrations by C. Cuneo. 

LORDS OF THE FO'CSLE, THE M or ley Roberts. 672 

Illustrations by A. C Michael, 


Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

MONCH, TEMPEST-BOUND ON THE George D. Abraham. 32: 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


The Mysterious Spiritualistic Seance A.D.Ross. 232 

Stamp Decoration as a Fine Art 233 

The Queerest Insect on Record D. W. 0. Fagan. 234 

Egg-Shell Carving George W. Wigglesworth. 23- 

An Ancient Code of Health M. E. Le Julian. 236 

Illustrations fron» Photographs. 

NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN „ Austin Philips. 380 

Illustrations by A C. Michael 

Illustrations by H. M. Bateman.- 





PERPLEXITIES AND SOLUTIONS : With Some Easy Puzzles for Beginners. 

Henry E. Dudeney. 113, n8 f 232, 344, 47$, 59&, 1™ 


Illustrations from Photographs and I>rawings. 


Second Article: "The Taste for Pleasure " .. 63 

Third Article : u The Risks of Life " 302 

Fourth Article: "In Her Place" 443 

Illustrations by Alfred Leeic. 

POISON BELT, THE Arthur Conan Doyle. 241,363,483,603 

Illustrations by Harry Rounlree. 


Illustrations by Tom Wilkinson. 

QUAINT QUESTIONS ' .. .. Barry Pain. 116,221 

Illustrations by Ren6 Bull. 

QUEST OF QUIET, IN John Ivimey. 132 

Illustrations by Bert Thomas. 

Bertram Atkey. 
H. Thompson. 

2 56 


Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott. 


Illustrations by Chas. Grave. 


Illustrations by George Morrow. 


Bennett, Arnold 

Chase, Pauline 42 

Graves, George 557 

Lyons, Sir Joseph 270 


Illustrations from Photographs and Diagrams. 

E. S. Valentine. 290 



Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Alec Ball. 


Illustrations by Chas. Crombie. 


Illustrations by \V. Dewar. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 



Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 

John J. Ward, F.ES., and George S. Heaven, BSc. 182 

H. Rider Haggard. 3, 1 23 

P. G. Wodehouse. 157 

Edward Cecil. 504 

Talbot Mundy. 452 



Illustrations by Tony Sarg. 

F. Thicknesse-Woodington. 689 

WET MAGIC. A Story for Children 
Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations by Alfred teete. 

E. Neshit. 105, 224, 351, 468, 591, 711 



Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 



CU, »VIU 1 KAMI 1 VJX MKttl 


by Google 

ONE of the most conspicuous objects at the 
larger bookstalls ard bookshops th rough' 
out the country during the past few weeks 
has been a striking statuette, some twelve inches 
high, of Professor Challenger; the hero of 
"THE LOST WORLDS Its purpose is 
to remind the public that Sir A. Conan 
Doyle's famous story may now/ be obtained 
in book form, and the publishers, Messrs. 
Hodder and St ought on, are to be congratu- 
lated on their novel form of announcement. 

NEXT month we hope to give our readers more 
particulars of "THE POISON BELT. 
the story in which some further adventures of 
Professor Challenger and his fellow - explorers 
are to be related by Sir A, Conan Doyle. 

Original from 


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Vol. xJv. 

JANUARY, 1913. 

No. 265. 

Smith and the Pharaohs. 


Illustrated by Alec Ball. 

Wandering one day among the Egyptian sculptures in the British Museum, Smith falls in love with the 
plaster cast of an unknown woman's head, which seems to him to return his gaze with a myslerious smile. 
As a result, he becomes an ardent Egyptologist, and spends his holidays in excavation work in Egypt. On 
his third visit he finds in a tomb the head of a statuette, whose smiling features he immediately recognizes 
as those of the cast in the Museum, and whose name he discovers from the hieroglyphics is Queen 
Ma-Mee. Realizing that he is in her desecrated tomb, he renews his search, and also finds a mummied 
hand bearing two gold rings. 


MITH was seated in the 
sanctum of the distinguished 
Director-General of Antiqui- 
ties at the new Cairo Museum. 
It was a very interesting room. 
Books piled upon the floor ; 
objects from tombs awaiting 
examination, lying here and there ; a hoard of 
Ptolemaic silver coins, just dug up at Alex- 
. andria, standing on a table in the pot that had 
hidden them for two thousand years ; in the 
corner the mummy of a royal child not long 
ago discovered, with some inscription scrawled 
upon the wrappings (brought here to be 
deciphered by the Master), and the withered 
lotus-bloom, love's last offering, thrust beneath 
one of the pink retaining bands. 

" A touching object," thought Smith to 
himself. " Really, they might have left the 
poor little dear in peace." 

Smith had a tender heart, but even as he 
reflected he became aware that some of the 
jewellery hidden in an inner pocket of his 
waistcoat (designed for bank-notes) was fret- 
ting his skin. He had a tender conscience also. 
Just then the Director bustled in, alert, 
vigorous, full of interest. 

" Ah, my dear Mr. Smith ! " he said, in his 
excellent English. " I am indeed glad to 
see you back again, especially as I understand 
that you are come rejoicing and bringing 
your sheaves with you. They tell me you 
have been extraordinarily successful. What 
do you say is the name of this queen whose 
tomb you have found— Ma-Mec ? A very 
unusual name. How do you get the extra 
vowel ? Is it for euphony — eh ? Did I not 
know how good a scholar you are, I should 

Vol xlv.— !• Copyright, 1912, by 

be tempted to believe that you had misread it. 
Ma-Mee ! Ma-Mee ! That would be pretty 
in French, would it not ? Ma mie — my 
darling ! Well, I dare say she was somebody's 
mie in her time. But tell me the story." 

Smith told him shortly and clearly ; also 
he produced his photographs and copies of 

" This is interesting — interesting truly," 
said the Director, when he had glanced 
through them. " You must leave them with 
me to study. Also you will publish them, 
is it not so ? Perhaps one of the Societies 
would help you with the cost, for it should 
be done in facsimile. Look at this vignette ! 
Most unusual. Oh, what a pity that scoun- 
drelly priest got off with the jewellery and 
burnt her Majesty's body ! " 

" He didn't get off with all of it." 

" What, Mr. Smith ? Our inspector re- 
ported to me that you found nothing." 

" I dare say, sir ; but your inspector did 
not know what I found." 

" Ah, you are discreet ! Well, let us see." 

Slowly Smith unbuttoned his waistcoat. 
From its inner pocket and elsewhere about 
his person he extracted the jewels wrapped in 
mummy-cloth as he had found them. First 
he produced a sceptre-head of gold, in the 
shape of a pomegranate fruit and engraved 
with the throne name and titles of Ma-Mee. 

" What a beautiful object ! " said the 
Director. " Look ! the handle was of ivory, 
and that sacri thief of a priest smashed it 
out at the socket. It was fresh ivory then ; 
the robbery must have taken place not long 
after the burial. See, this magnifying-glass 
shows it. IOfatrftll frorr 


Smith handed him the surviving half of 
the marvellous necklace that had been torn 
in two. 

" I have re-threaded it," he muttered, 
" but every bead is in its place" 

" Oh, heavens ! How lovely ! Note the 
cutting of those cornelian heads of Hathor 
and the gold lotus-blooms between — yes, and 
the enamelled flies beneath. We have 
nothing like it in the Museum. " 

So it went on. 

" Is that all ? " gasped the Director at 
last, when every object from the basket 
glittered before them on the table. 

"Yes," said Smith. "That is— no. I 
found a broken statuette hidden in the sand 
outside the tomb. It is of the queen, but I 
thought perhaps you would allow me to keep 

" But certainly, Mr. Smith ; it is yours 
indeed. We are not niggards here. Still, if 
I might see it " 

From yet another pocket Smith produced 
the head. The Director gazed at it, then he 
spoke with feeling. 

" I said just now that you were discreet, 
Mr. Smith, and I have been reflecting that 
you are honest. But now I must add that 
you are very clever. If you had not made 
me promise that this bronze should be yours 
before you showed it me — well, it would 
never have gone into that pocket again. 
And, in the public interest, won't you release 
me from the promise ? " 

" No ! " said Smith. 

" You are perhaps not aware," went on 
the Director, with a groan, " that this is a 
portrait of Mariette's unknown queen whom 
we are thus able to identify. It seems a pity 
that the two should be separated ; a replica 
we could let you have." 

" I am quite aware," said Smith, " and I 
will be sure to send you a replica, with photo- 
graphs. Also I promise to leave the original 
to f ome museum by will." 

The Director clasped the image tenderly, 
and, holding it to the light, read the broken 
cartouche beneath the breasts. 

" * Ma-M<5, Great Royal Lady. Beloved 

of ' Beloved of whom ? Well, of Smith, 

for one. Take it, monsieur, and hide it away 
at once, lest soon there should be another 
mummy in this collection, a modern mummy 
called Smith ; and, in the name of Justice, 
let the museum which inherits it be, not the 
British, but that of Cairo, for this queen 
belongs to Egypt. By the way, I have been 
told that you are delicate in the lungs. How 
is your health now? Our cold winds are 
Digitized by W 

very trying. Quite good ? Ah, that is 
excellent ! I suppose that you have no 
more articles that you can show me ? " 

" I have nothing more except a mummied 
hand, which I found in the basket with the 
jewels. The two rings off it lie there. Doubt- 
less it was removed to get at that bracelet. 
I suppose you will not mind my keeping the 
hand " 

" Of the beloved of Smith," interrupted the 
Director, drolly. " No, I suppose not, though 
for my part I should prefer one that was not 
quite so old. Still, perhaps you will not 
mind my seeing it. That pocket of yours 
still looks a little bulky; I thought that it 
contained books ! " 

Smith produced a cigar-box ; in it was the 
hand wrapped in cotton-wool. 

" Ah," said the Director, " a pretty, well- 
bred hand. No doubt this Ma-Mee was the 
real heiress to the throne, as she describes 
herself. The Pharaoh was somebody of 
inferior birth, half-brother — she is called 
1 Royal Sister,' you remember — son of one 
of the Pharaoh's slave-women, perhaps. Odd 
that she never mentioned him in the tomb. 
It looks as though they didn't get on in life, 
and that she was determined to have done 
with him in death. Those were the rings 
upon that hand, were they not ? " 

He replaced them on the fingers, then took 
off one, a royal signet in a cartouche, and 
read the inscription on the other : " * Bes 
Ank, Ank Bes.' ' Bes the Living, the Living 

" Your Ma-Mee had some human vanity 
about her," he added. " Bes, among other 
things, as you know, was the god of beauty 
and of the adornments of women. She wore 
that ring that she might remain beautiful, and 
that her dresses might always fit, and her 
rouge never cake when she was dancing before 
the gods. Also it fixes her period pretty 
closely, but then so do other things. It 
seems a pity to rob Ma-Mee of her pet ring, 
does it not ? The royal signet will be enough 
for us." 

With a little bow he gave the hand back 
to Smith, leaving the Bes ring on the finger 
that had worn it for more than three 
thousand years. At least, Smith was so sure 
it was the Bes ring that at the time he did 
not look at it again. 

Then they parted, Smith promising to 
return upon the morrow, which, owing to 
events to be described, he did not do. 

" Ah ! " said the Master to himself, as the 
door closed behind his visitor. " He's in a 
hurry to be gor>e, He has fear lest I should 



change my mind about that ring. Also there 
is the bronze. Monsieur Smith was rusS there. 
It is worth a thousand pounds, that bronze. 
Yet I do not believe he was thinking of the 
money. I believe he is in love with that 
Ma-Mee and wants to keep her picture. 
Mon Dieu I A well-established affection. 
At least he is what the English call an odd 
fish, one whom I could never make out, and 
of whom no one seems to know anything. 
Still, honest, I am sure — quite honest. Why, 
he might have kept every one of those jewels 
and no one have been the wiser. And what 
things ! What a find ! del t what a find ! 
There has been nothing like it for years. 
Benedictions on the head of Odd-fish Smith ! " 
Then he collected the precious objects, 
thrust them into an inner compartment of 
his safe, which he locked and double-locked, 
and, as it was nearly five o'clock, departed 
from the Museum to his private residence 
in the grounds, there to study Smith's copies 
and photographs, and to tell some friends 
of the great things that had happened. 

When Smith found himself outside the 
sacred door, and had presented its venerable 
guardian with a baksheesh of five piastres, he 
walked a few paces to the right and paused 
awhile to watch some native labourers who 
were dragging a huge sarcophagus upon an 
improvised tramway. As they dragged they 
sang an echoing rhythmic song, whereof each 
line ended with an invocation to Allah. 

Just so, reflected Smith, had their fore- 
fathers sung when, millenniums ago, they 
dragged that very sarcophagus from the 
quarries to the Nile, and from the Nile to the 
tomb whence it reappeared to-day, or when 
they slid the casing blocks of the pyramids 
up the great causeway and smooth slope of 
sand, and laid them in their dizzy resting- 
places. Only then each line of the immemorial 
chant of toil ended with an invocation to 
Amen, now transformed to Allah. The East 
may change its masters and its gods, but its 
customs never change, and if to-day Allah 
wore the feathers of Amen one wonders 
whether the worshippers would find the 
difference so very great. 

Thus thought Smith as he hurried away 
from the sarcophagus and those blue-robed, 
dark-skinned fellaheen, down the long gallery 
that is filled with a thousand sculptures. 
For a moment he paused before the wonderful 
white statue of Queen Amenartas, then, 
remembering that his time was short, 
hastened on to a certain room, one of those 
which opened out of the gallery. 

Digitized by C^OOgle 

In a corner of this room, upon the wall, 
amongst many other beautiful objects, stood 
that head which Mariette had found, whereof 
in past years the cast had fascinated him in 
London. Now he knew whose head it was ; 
to him it had been given to find the tomb 
of her who had sat for that statue. Her very 
hand was in his pocket — yes, the hand that 
had touched yonder marble, pointing out its 
defects to the sculptor, or perhaps swearing 
that he flattered her. Smith wondered who 
that sculptor was ; surely he must have been 
a happy man. Also he wondered whether 
the statuette was also this master's work. 
He thought so, but he wished to make sure. 

Near to the end of the room he stopped 
and looked about him like a thief. He was 
alone in the place ; not a single student or 
tourist could be seen, and its guardian was 
somewhere else. He drew out ihe box that 
contained the hand. From the hand he 
slipped the ring which the Director-General 
had left there as a gift to himself. He would 
much have preferred the other with the signet, 
but how could he say so, especially after the 
episode of the statuette ? 

Replacing the hand in his pocket without 
looking at the ring — for his eyes were watching 
to see whether he was observed — he set it 
upon his little finger, which it exactly fitted. 
(Ma-Mee had worn both of them upon the 
third finger of her left hand, the Bes ring as a 
guard to the signet.) He had the fancy to 
approach the effigy of Ma-Mee wearing a ring 
which she had worn and that came straight 
from her finger to his own. 

Smith found the head in its accustomed 
place. Weeks had gone by since he looked 
upon it, and now, to his eyes, it had grown 
more beautiful than ever, and its smile was 
more mystical and living. He drew out the 
statuette and began to compare them point 
by point. Oh, no doubt was possible ! Both 
were likenesses of the same woman, though 
the statuette might have been executed two 
or three years later than the statue. To him 
the face of it looked a little older and more 
spiritual. Perhaps illness, or some premoni- 
tion of her end had then thrown its shadow 
on the queen. He compared and compared. 
He made some rough measurements and 
sketches in his pocket-book, and set himself 
to work out a canon of proportions. 

So hard and earnestly did he work, so lost was 
his mind that he never heard the accustomed 
warning sound which announces that the 
Museum is about to close. Hidden behind 
an altar as he was, in his distant, shadowed 
corner, the guardian of the room never saw 



him as he cast a last perfunctory glance about 
the place before departing till the Saturday 
morning ; for the morrow was Friday, the 
Mohammedan Sabbath, on which the Museum 
remains shut, and he would not be called 
upon to attend. So he went. Everybody 
went. The great doors clanged, were locked 
and bolted, and, save for a watchman out- 
side, no one was left in all that vast place 
except Smith in his corner, engaged in 
sketching and in measurements. 

The difficulty of seeing, owing to the increase 
of shadow, first called his attention to the 
fact that time was slipping away. He glanced 
at his watch and saw that it was ten fninutes 
to the hour. 

" Soon be time to go," he thought to 
himself, and resumed his work. 

How strangely silent the place seemed ! 
Not a footstep to be heard or the sound of a 
human voice. He looked at his watch again, 
and saw that it was six o'clock, not five, or 
so the thing said. But that was impossible, 
for the Museum shut at five ; evidently the 
desert sand had got into the works. The 
room in which he stood was that known as 
Room I, and he had noticed that its Arab 
custodian often frequented Room K or the 
gallery outside. He would find him and ask 
what was the real time. 

Passing round the effigy of the wonderful 
Hathor cow, perhaps the finest example of 
an ancient sculpture of a beast in the whole 
world, Smith came to the doorway and looked 
up and down the gallery. Not a soul to be 
seen. He ran to Room K, to Room H, and 
others. Still not a soul to be seen. Then he 
made his way as fast as he could go to the 
great entrance. The doors were locked and 

" Watch must be right, after all. I'm 
shut in," he said to himself. " However, 
there's sure to be someone about somewhere. 
Probably the salle des ventes is still open. 
Shops don't shut till they are obliged." 

Thither he went, to find its door as firmly 
closed as a door can be. He knocked on it, 
but a sepulchral echo was the only answer. 

" I know," he reflected. " The Director 
must still be in his room. It will take him a 
long while to examine all that jewellery and 
put it away." 

So for the room he headed, and, after 
losing his path twice, found it by help of the 
sarcophagus that the Arabs had been dragging, 
which now stood as deserted as it had done 
in the tomb, a lonesome and impressive 
object in the gathering shadows. The Direc- 
tor's cjoor was shut, and again his knockings 

produced nothing but an echo. He started 
on a tour round the Museum, and, having 
searched the ground floors, ascended to the 
upper galleries by the great stairway. 

Presently he found himself in that devoted 
to the royal mummies, and, being tired, 
rested there a while. Opposite to him, in a 
glass case in the middle of the gallery, reposed 
Rameses II. Near to, on shelves in a 
side case, were Rameses' son, Meneptah, and 
above, his son, Seti II., while in other cases 
were the mortal remains of many more of the 
royalties of Egypt. He looked at the proud 
face of Rameses and at the little fringe of 
white locks turned yellow by the embalmer's 
spices, also at the raised left arm. He remem- 
bered how the Director had told him that 
when they were unrolling this mighty monarch 
they went away to lunch, and that presently 
the man who had been left in charge of the 
body rushed into the room ^yith his hair on 
end, and said that the dead king had lifted 
his arm and pointed at him. 

Back they went, and there, true enough, 
was the arm lifted ; nor were they ever able 
to get it quite into its place again. The 
explanation given was that the warmth of 
the sun had contracted the withered muscles, 
a very natural and correct explanation. 

Still, Smith wished that he had not 
recollected the story just at this moment, 
especially as the arm seemed to move while 
he contemplated it — a very little, but still 
to move. 

He turned round and gazed at Meneptah, 
whose hollow eyes stared at him from between 
the wrappings carelessly thrown across the 
parchment-like and ashen face. There, prob- 
ably, lay the countenance that had frowned 
on Moses. There was the heart which God 
had hardened. Well, it was hard enough now, 
for the doctors said he died of ossification of 
the arteries, and that the vessels of the heart 
were full of lime ! 

Smith stood upon a chair and peeped at 
Seti II. above. His weaker countenance was 
very peaceful, but it seemed to wear an air 
of reproach. In getting down Smith managed 
to upset the heavy chair. The noise it made 
was terrific ; he would not have thought it 
possible that the fall of such an article could 
produce so much sound. Satisfied with his 
inspection of these particular kings, who some- 
how looked quite different now from what 
they had ever done before — more real and 
imminent, so to speak — he renewed his 
search for a living man. 

On he went, mummies to his right, mummies 
to his left~)itit]RVcrv stvle and period, till he 



began to feel as though he never wished to 
see another dried remnant of mortality. He 
peeped into the room where lay the relics of 
louiya and Touiyou, the father and mother 
of the great Queen Taia. Cloths had been 
drawn over these , and really they looked worse 
and more suggestive thus draped than in their 

they were better than the gold masks of the 
great Ptolemaic ladies which glinted at him 
through the gathering gloom, 

Really, he had seen enough of the upper 
floors. The statues downstairs were better 
than all these dead, although it was true that, 
according to the Egyptian faith, every one of 


frigid and unadorned blackness. He came to 
the coffins oE the priest-kings of the twentieth 
dynasty , formicfcible painted coffins with 
human faces. There seemed to he a vast 
number of these priest-king^ hut perhaps 

Digrtized byG* 

those statues was haunted eternally by the 
Ka, or double, of the person whom it repre- 
sented* He descended the great stairway. 
Was it fancy, or did something run across the 
bottom step in front ot him — an animal of 




some kind, followed by a swift-moving and 
indefinite shadow? If so, it must have 
been the Museum cat hunting a Museum 
mouse. Only, then what on earth was that 
very peculiar and unpleasant shadow ? 

He called, " Puss ! puss ! puss ! " for he 
would have been quite glad of its company; 
but there came no friendly " miau " in 
response. Perhaps it was only the Ka of a 
cat and the shadow was — oh ! never mind 
what. The Egyptians worshipped cats, and 
there were plenty of their mummies about 
on the shelves. But the shadow ! 

Once he shouted in the hope of attracting 
attention, for there were no windows to which 
he could climb. He did not repeat the 
experiment, for it seemed as though a thousand 
voices were answering him from every corner 
and roof of the gigantic edifice. 

Well, he must face the thing out. He was 
shut in a museum, and the question was in 
what part of it he should camp for the night. 
Moreover, as it was growing rapidly dark, 
the problem must be solved at once. He 
thought with affection of the lavatory, where, 
before going to see the Director, only that 
afternoon he had washed his hands with the 
assistance of a kindly Arab who watched the 
door and gracefully accepted a piastre. But 
there was no Arab there now, and the door, 
like every other in this confounded place, 
was locked. He marched on to the entrance. 

Here, opposite to each other, stood the red 
sarcophagi of the great Queen Hatshepu and 
her brother and husband, Thothmes III. He 
looked at them. Why should not one of 
these afford him a night's lodging ? They 
were deep and quiet, and would fit the human 
frame very nicely. For a while Smith 
wondered which of these monarchs would be 
the more likely to take offence at such a use 
of a private sarcophagus, and, acting on 
general principles, concluded that he would 
rather throw himself on the mercy of the 

Already one of his legs was over the 
edge of that solemn coffer, and he was 
squeezing his body beneath the massive lid 
that was propped above it on blocks of 
wood, when he remembered a little, naked, 
withered thing with long hair that he had 
seen in a side chamber of the tomb of 
Amenhotep II. in the Valley of Kings at 
Thebes. This caricature of humanity many 
thought, and he agreed with them, to be the 
actual body of the mighty Hatshepu as it 
appeared after the robbers had done with it. 

Supposing, now, that when he was lying at 
the bottom of that sarcophagus, sleeping the 

sleep of the just, this little personage should 
peep over its edge and ask him what he was 
doing there ! Of course the idea was absurd ; 
he was tired, and his nerves were a little 
shaken. Still, the fact remained that for 
centuries the hallowed dust of Queen 
Hatshepu had slept where he, a modern 
man, was proposing to sleep. 

He scrambled down from the sarcophagus 
and looked round him in despair. Opposite 
to the main entrance was the huge central 
hall of the Museum. Now tjie cement roof of 
this hall had, he knew, gone wrong, with the 
result that very extensive repairs had become 
necessary. So extensive were they, indeed, 
that the Director-General had informed him 
that they would take several years to com- 
plete. Therefore this hall was boarded up, 
only a little doorway being left by which the 
workmen could enter. Certain statues, of 
Seti II. and others, too large to be moved, 
were also roughly boarded over, as were some 
great funeral boats on either side of the 
entrance. The rest of the place, which might 
be two hundred feet long with a propor- 
tionate breadth, was empty save for the 
colossi of Amenhotep III. and his queen 
Taia that stood beneath the gallery at its 
farther end. 

It was an appalling place in which to sleep, 
but better, reflected Smith, than a sarco- 
phagus or those mummy chambers. If, for 
instance, he could creep behind the deal 
boards that enclosed one of the funeral boats 
he would be quite comfortable there. Lifting 
the curtain, he slipped into the hall, where the 
gloom of evening had already settled. Only 
the skylights and the outline of the towering 
colossi at the far end remained visible. 
Close to him were the two funeral boats 
which he had noted when he looked into the 
hall earlier on that day, standing at the head 
of a flight of steps which led to the sunk floor 
of the centre. He groped his way to that on 
the right. As he expected, the protecting 
planks were not quite joined at the bow. He 
crept in between them and the boat and 
laid himself down. 

Presumably, being altogether tired out, 
Smith did ultimately fall asleep, for how long 
he never knew. At any rate, it is certain that, 
if so, he woke up again. He could not tell the 
time, because his watch was not a repeater, 
and the place was black as the pit. He had 
some matches in his pocket, and might have 
struck one and even have lit his pipe. To his 
credit be it said, however, he remembered 
that he was the sole tenant of one of the most 
valuable museums in the world, and his 



responsibilities with reference to fire. So he 
refrained from striking that match under the 
keel of a boat which had become very dry in 
the course of six thousand years. 

Smith found himself very wide awake 
indeed. Never in all his life did he remember 
being more so, not even in the hour of its 
great catastrophe, or when his godfather, 
Ebenezer, after much hesitation, had pro- 
mised him a clerkship in the bank of which he 
was a director. His nerves seemed strung 
tight as harp-strings, and his every sense was 
painfully acute. Thus he could even smell 
the odour of mummies that floated down 
from the upper galleries and the earthy 
scent of the boat which had been buried for 
thousands of years in sand at the foot of the 
pyramid of one of the fifth dynasty kings. 

Moreover, he could hear all sorts of strange 
sounds, faint and far-away sounds which at 
first he thought must emanate from Cairo 
without. Soon, however, he grew sure that 
their origin was more local. Doubtless the 
cement work and the cases in the galleries 
were cracking audibly, as is the unpleasant 
habit of such things at night. 

Yet why should these common manifesta- 
tions be so universal and affect him so 
strangely ? Really, it seemed as though 
people were stirring all about him. More, he 
could have sworn that the great funeral 
boat beneath which he lay had become 
re-peopled with the crew that once it bore. 

He heard them at their business above him. 
There were tramplings and a sound as though 
something heavy were being laid on the deck, 
such, for instance, as must have been made 
when the mummy of Pharaoh was set there 
for its last journey to the western bank of 
the Nile. Yes, and now he could have sworn 
again that the priestly crew were getting out 
the oars. 

Smith began to meditate flight from the 
neighbourhood of that place when something 
occurred which determined him to stop where 
he was. 

The huge hall was growing light, but not, 
as at first he hoped, with the rays of dawn. 
This light was pale and ghostly, though very 
penetrating. Also it had a blue tinge, unlike 
any other he had ever seen. At first it arose 
in a kind of fan or fountain at the far end of 
the hall, illumining the steps there and the 
two noble colossi which sat above. 

But what was this that stood at the head of 
the steps, radiating glory ? By heavens, it was 
Osiris himself, or the image of Osiris, God of 
the Dead, the Egyptian saviour of the world ! 

Thpre he stood, in his mummy-cloths, wear- 

vJl xlv.— 2. 1 1 

ing the feathered crown, and holding in 
his hands, which projected from an opening 
in the wrappings, the crook and the scourge 
of power. Was he alive, or was he dead ? 
Smith could not tell, since he never moved, 
only stood there, splendid and fearful, his 
calm, benignant face staring into nothingness. 

Smith became aware that the darkness 
between him and the vision of this god was 
peopled ; that a great congregation was gather- 
ing, or had gathered there. The blue light 
began to grow; long tongues of it shot for- 
ward, which joined themselves together, 
illumining all that huge hall. 

Now, too, he saw the congregation. Before 
him, rank upon rank of them, stood the kings 
and queens of Egypt. As though at a given 
signal, they bowed tliemselves to the Osiris, 
and ere the tinkling of their ornaments had 
died away, lo ! Osiris was gone. But in his 
place stood another, Isis, the Mother of 
Mystery, her deep eyes looking forth from 
beneath the jewelled vulture-cap. Again 
the congregation bowed, and, lo ! she was 
gone. But in her place stood yet another, 
a radiant, lovely being, who held in her 
hand the Sign of Life, and wore upon 
her head the symbol of the shining disc 
— Hathor, Goddess of Love. A third time 
the congregation bowed, and she, too, was 
gone ; nor did any other appear in her place. 

The Pharaohs and their queens began to 
move about and speak to each other ; their 
voices came to his ears in one low, sweet 

In his amaze Smith had forgotten fear. 
From his hiding-place he watched them 
intently. Some of them he knew by their 
faces. There, for instance, was the long- 
necked Khu-en-aten, talking somewhat angrily 
to. the imperial Rameses II. Smith could 
understand what he said, for this power 
seemed to have been given to him. He was 
complaining in a high, weak voice that on 
this, the one night of the year when they 
might meet, the gods, or the magic images of 
the gods who were put up for them to worship, 
should not include his god, symbolized by the 
" Aten," or the sun's disc. 

" I have heard of your Majesty's god," 
replied Rameses ; " the priests used to tell 
me of him, also that he did not last long 
after your Majesty flew to heaven. The 
Fathers of Amen gave you a bad name ; they 
called you 'the heretic* and hammered out 
your cartouches. They were quite rare in 
my time. Oh, do not let your Majesty be 
angry ! So many of us have been heretics. 
My grandson, Seti, there " — and he pointed 



to a mild, thoughtful-faced man — " for 
example. 1 am told that he really worshipped 
the God of those Hebrew slaves whom I used 
to press to build my cities. Look at that lady 
with him. Beautiful, isn't she ? Observe 
her large, violet eyes ! Well, she was the 
one who did the mischief, a Hebrew herself. 
At least, they tell me so." 

" I will talk with him," answered Khu- 
en-aten. "It is more than possible that 
we may agree on certain points. Mean- 
while, let me explain to your Majesty " 

"Oh, I pray you, not now. There is my wife." 

" Your wife ? " said Khu-en-aten, drawing 
himself up. " Which wife ? I am told that 
your Majesty had many and left a large 
family ; indeed. I see some hundreds of them 
here to-night. Now, I — but let me introduce 
Nefertiti to your Majesty. I may explain 
that she was my only wife." 

" So I have understood. Your Majesty was 
rather an invalid, were you not ? Of course, in 
those circumstances, one prefers the nurse 
whom one can trust. Oh, pray, no offence ! 
Nefertari, my love — oh, I beg pardon ! — 
Astnefert — Nefertari has gone to speak to 
some of her children — let me introduce you 
to your predecessor, the Queen Nefertiti, 
wife of Amenhotep IV. — I mean Khu-en-aten 
(he changed his name, you know, because half 
of it was that of the father of the gods). 
She is interested in the question of plural 
marriages. Good-bye ! I wish to have a 
word with my grandfather, Rameses I. He 
was fond of me as a little boy." 

At this moment Smith's interest in that 
queer conversation died away, for of a sudden 
he beheld none other than the queen of his 
dreams, Ma-Mee. Oh ! there she stood, 
without a doubt, only ten times more beauti- 
ful than he had ever pictured her. She w r as 
tall and somewhat fair-complexioned, with 
slumbrous, dark eyes, and on her face gleamed 
the mystic smile he loved. She wore a robe 
of simple white and a purple-broidered apron, 
a crown of golden urcei with turquoise eyes 
was set upon her dark hair as in her statue, 
and on her breast and arms were the very 
necklace and bracelets that he had taken 
from her tomb. She appeared to be some- 
what moody, or rather thoughtful, for she 
leaned by herself against a balustrade, 
watching the throng without much interest. 

Presently a Pharaoh, a black - browed, 
vigorous man with thick lips, drew near. 

" I greet your Majesty," he said. 

She started, and answered : " Oh, it is you ! 
I make my obeisance to your Majesty," and 
she curtsied to him, humbly enough, but 

with a suggestion of mockery in her move- 

" Well, you do not seem to have been very 
anxious to find me, Ma-Mee, which, considering 
that we meet so seldom " 

" I saw that your Majesty was engaged 
with my sister queens," she interrupted, in her 
rich, low voice, " and with some other ladies 
in the gallery there, whose faces I seem to 
remember, but who I think were not queens. 
Unless, indeed, you married them after I was 
drawn away." 

" One must talk to one's relations," replied 
the Pharaoh. 

" Quite so. But, you see, I have no 
relations — at least, none whom I knew well. 
My parents, you will remember, died when 
I was young, leaving me Egypt's heiress, and 
they are still vexed at the marriage which I 
made on the advice of my councillors. But, 
is it not annoying ? I have lost one of my 
rings, that which had the god Bes on it. 
Some dweller on the earth must be wearing it 
to-day, and that is why I cannot get it back 
from him." 

" Him ! Why 'him ' ? Hush ; the business 
is about to begin." 

" What business, my lord ? " 

" Oh, the question of the violation of our 
tombs, I believe." 

" Indeed ! That is a large subject, and 
not a very profitable one, I should say. Tell 
me, who is that ? " And she pointed to a 
woman who had stepped forward, a very 
splendid person, magnificently arrayed. 

" Cleopatra the Greek," he answered, " the 
last of Egypt's Sovereigns, one of the Ptolemys. 
You can always know her by that Roman 
who walks about after her." 

" Which ? " asked Ma-Mee. " I see several 
— also other men. She was the wretch who 
rolled Egypt in the dirt and betrayed her. 
Oh, if it were not for the law of peace by 
which we must abide when we meet thus ! " 

" You mean that she would be torn to 
shreds, Ma-Mee, and her very soul scattered 
like the limbs of Osiris ? Well, if it were not 
for that law of peace, so perhaps would many 
of us, for never have I heard a single king 
among these hundreds speak altogether well of 
those who went before or followed after him." 

*' Especially of those who went before if 
they happen to have hammered out their 
cartouches and usurped their monuments/' 
said the queen, dryly, looking him in the eyes. 

At this home-thrust the Pharaoh seemed 
to wince. Making no answer, he pointed to 
the royal woman who had mounted the steps 
at the end of the h*- L Uy|CHIGAN % 




Queen Cleopatra lifted her hands and stood his lot to look upon her rich and living 

thus for a while- Very splendid she was, loveliness. There she shone; she who had 

and Smith , on his hands and knees behind changed the fortunes of the world, she who, 

the hoarding of the boat, thanked his stars whatever she did amiss, at least had known 

that alone among modern men it had been how to die* 

(To be concluded.) 
C nrui r Original from 



**- ivil-faced man 
^.t. he really woi> 
^^w slaves whom 
^ies. Look at Un 
isn't she ? ( j 

• I Well, she \\>i 
~\rkiei, a Hebrew 1, 

Viim," answered 
ore than possiblr 
cz^^Ttain points. 

*t o your Majesty- 
> -t now. There is my \ 
■w<3L Khu-en-aten, dr;i 
V^ wife ? I am told 

xmany and left a 
: e some hundreds of \ 
I— but let me intr. 
■Xajesty. I may ex? 
p Z.^y wife." 
c" » -tood. Your Majest \ 
«^ r e you not ? Of cour 
sss^ one prefers the i, 
i=5>^- Oh, pray, no on'. 
-J — oh > I beg pard,,, 

* has gone to sjh v ' 
" en— let me introdm « 
=r^or, the Queen Nci- 
^ IV.— I mean Khu-c r, 
ro_e, you know, becau^ 

:E the father of the « 
in the question of j 
— t>ye ! I wish to h,' 
^ndfather, Rameses 1 
i-s a little boy." 
nz Smith's interest n 
c3ied away, for of a , 
l^er than the queen 

Oh! there she 
nly ten times more 1 
ver pictured her. s 
3-t fair- C omplexion en 
^es, and on her fare < 
beloved. She wore 
«J a purple-broidery .,i 
m «r« with turqu^; 
czlark hair as in her 
-fc and arms were p 
u relets that he } VtU ' 
She appeared to |>, 
rather thoughtful 
-If against a \ y l K 
xag without much 
Inaraoh, a black 
1^ .thick Ji ps> d 
Xajesty," he said 
answered ; " o t 
nee to )'our * 


^nngji House. 

— .* Ana '0 

by Google 


Original fi 




time before he died- In former days the 
place of this was taken by a painting of Queen 
Alexandra as a bride. 

Those who pass Marlborough House almost 
daily have but small idea of the wonderful 
collection of valuable treasures that are 
hidden behind the walls that shield the house 
from public view. The place has been 
described as i£ one vast treasure-house/ 1 and 
this is by no means an exaggeration. 

It is , of course } the private apartments of 
Queen Alexandra that offer the greatest 
attraction when going over Marlborough 
House. Admission to these is very jealously 
guarded, and only Her Majesty's most inti- 
mate friends, together with a few highly- 
favoured Court officials , are ever allowed to 
enter them. They comprise four apartments 
in all — dining-room ? sitting-room, beck? in, 
and dressing-room. Leading out of the 
latter apartment is Her Majesty's bathroom, 
a beautiful little apartment in pure white 
marble. The walls of the dining-room are 
pjtnelled in silk of a pale apple-green shade— 
Her Majesty's favourite colour, by the way. 
This room represents more truly than any 
other in the whole of Marlborough House Her 
Majesty's personal tastes. The walls are 
covered almost entirely with sea-pictures, as 
becomes " the Sea King's daughter from over 

the sea." Over the mantelpiece hangs an 
almost perfectly- executed painting of the 
late King Edward in his uniform as a British 
Field-Marshal, The devotion of the Queen 
to the memory of her beloved husband is to 
be seen everywhere throughout her London 
residence. Pictures and photographs of him 
are to be seen in nearly every apartment, 
while little relics all recall that lovable figure 
that so suddenly passed from among us. 

One of the most interesting pictures in 
Her Majesty's private dining-room is that of 
the small protected cruiser Bacchante, in 
which the present King and the late Duke of 
Clarence and Avondale made their memorable 
voyage round the Empire. The little ship 
is shown battling nobly against a gale, 

From Her Majesty's dining-room access is 
directly gained to her sitting-room, an apart- 
ment to which no one but the members of 
her own family are admitted without a special 
invitation. The prevailing shade here is a 
delicate tinge of crimson that gives the apart- 
ment—one of the largest — a bright aspect 
even upon the most cheerless day. It is here 
that Her Majesty attends to that considerable 
volume of business that still demands her 
attention. Her Majesty's love for photo- 
graphs of members of her family and others 
who have be^jn admitted to her private 




friendship is shown to the full here- Photo- 
graphs abound upon all sides and wherever 
they can be placed. Upon her handsome 
writing-table stands one of the last photo- 
graphs ever taken of the late King Edward. 
While at Marlborough House the Queen 
passes practically the whole of her mornings 
in this room, going through her always heavy 
correspondence and attending to such other 
matters as require to be dealt with. Her 
Majesty's great love for music is also dis- 
played here by the presence of her favourite 
piano. Placed upon it are two autographed 
photographs of the late Lady Halle (Mme, 
Norman Neruda), who was honoured with 
the personal friendship of the Queen for several 

with an interesting story attached to it. 
There are, for example, photographs of the 
late Duke of Clarence and Avondale and the 
present King in the costumes they wore 
when they attended their first fancy-dress 
ball, while upon one of the walls hangs 
an excellent painting of King Edward as 
a child in his sailor suit. The number of 
signed photographs of foreign Royalties 
to be found in this room is positively 
amazing, and it would be quite impossible 
to enumerate them alL Queen Alexandra is 
insistent that all photographs presented to 
her should be autographed, so that the value 
of the portraits in this one room is almost 
impossible to enumerate. Her Majesty, by 

i *Tj 

king edward's "business ROOM* 1 — in the ckxtrk stands the roi,l-tdi* dlsk at which 


years. She used to be a frequent visitor to 
Marlborough House in bygone clays, her 
violin always accompanying her. The two 
would play together for hours. 

Close at hand is the Royal music cabinet, 
containing sets of the works of the whole of 
Her Majesty's favourite composers, and this 
collection is being constantly added to. The 
late Queen, by the way, had a great liking 
for the old Scottish songs and ballads, and 
would much rather hear these than the 
classical compositions to which Queen 
Alexandra's tastes more incline. 

The sitting-room is filled with personal 
treasures of one description or another. For 
the most^part these are simple little things, 
but full c»f value to Her Majesty, and each 

the way, always likes to have a photograph 
of those who s^rve her, even in the humblest 
capacity, and makes it a rule to ask the 
subjects to sign them before they are placed 
in her collection. One of the photographs 
in T >r Majesty's boudoir is that of Princess 
Victoria Louise, the only daughter of the 
German Emperor and Empress, which was 
signed and forwarded to her during their 
iast State visit to London, 

Reference has already been made to the 
" business room " of the late King Edward 
that is situated upon this floor* There is no 
room in the whole residence that possesses 
such pathetic interest for alJ who are honoured 
by a peep at it, Jn the centre of the floor 




transacted the whole of his State affairs during 
his reign. It was seated here that King 
Edward received his Ministers and the foreign 
diplomatists accredited to the Court of 
St. James's. 

The table is a most fascinating one, and it 
is hard to leave it when one realizes the 
scenes, probably destined to become historic, 
of which it has been a silent witness, and the 
mute part that it has played in the story of 
the British Empire. 

There is one more feature in his late 
Majesty's business room that compels atten- 
tion, and that is a quite unique screen made 
up of photographs. It took King Edward 
many years to collect these. Very few Royal- 
ties figure among them. The collection in- 
cludes many of the most prominent politicians 
of recent years, among them being the Earl 
of Beaconsfield, the Marquess of Salisbury, 
and Mr. Gladstone. It was characteristic of 
the innate tactfulness of the late King that 
he never added a portrait of any living 
statesman to this collection, though, of course, 
he had several given to him, at his request, at 
one time and another, and it was not until 
after the funeral of the late Marquess of 
Salisbury that His Majesty placed his portrait 
on the screen with his own hands. Needless 
to say, this room is never now used for any 
purpose whatever, and it is only by special 
permission of Queen Alexandra that it may 
be inspected. 

Upon the same floor as Queen Alexandra's 
private apartments and within easy reach are 
the rooms usually allotted to any foreign 
Royalties who may be staying at Marlborough 
House. Beyond these rooms again is what 
is known as the Sheraton library, from the 
prevailing style of the furniture. Here are 
contained the books that Her Majesty 
requires for everyday use. Queen Alexandra 
is a great reader, especially of memoirs and 
modern history. Her tastes are most 
catholic, but books dealing with any phase of 
music or art appeal to her with the greatest 
force. Novels of the modern school, upon the 
other hand, have little or no attraction for her. 

Directly above Her Majesty's private 
apartments are those of the Princess Victoria, 
which are connected with Her Majesty's by 
telephone. This recalls the fact that among 
the many other curios preserved at Marl- 
borough House is the first telephone to be 
placed in a private residence in this country. 
It was made on board H.M.S. Thunderer 
in 1878 by the engineers, and presented to 
Queen Alexandra. It was installed between 
the schoolroom of the Royal children and Her 

Majesty's sitting-room, and very delighted 
were the present King and his brother and 
sisters to be able to " ring up " their mother. 
Very clumsy and old-fashioned this appears 
to-day, compared with the very complete 
installation of telephones that Marlborough 
House now contains. 

Among what may perhaps be termed the 
" State apartments " at Marlborough House 
(though this term is not, of course, strictly 
correct) is the truly wonderful Plate Room. 
It is to be doubted if there is such a display 
of gold and silver to be seen in the whole of 
Europe as is to be found here, with the single 
exception of the gold plate closets at Windsor 
Castle. Some years ago the Court jeweller 
called at Marlborough House to see the late 
King Edward, and he was taken by His 
Majesty into this apartment, and invited to 
give some idea of the intrinsic value of its 
contents. He gazed around him in amaze- 
ment at the countless treasures displayed 
upon all sides, and then hazarded, as a rough 
guess, two millions sterling. Of course it is 
impossible to estimate what prices would be 
obtained if the contents of this room were 
ever offered for public sale. It should be 
added that none of the many articles dis- 
played here are State property, but were 
presented personally to the late King Edward 
and to Queen Alexandra. 

Ranged round the spacious apartment are 
air-tight glass cases, filled with some of 
the most magnificent specimens of the 
goldsmiths' and silversmiths' art that have 
ever been produced. Hanging over this 
table is a handsome shield of solid gold, 
sent to the late King many years ago by his 
brother-in-law, the late Emperor Frederick. 
Elsewhere in this room are to be seen pre- 
sents from the head of almost every Euro- 
pean State, while the late Mikado of Japan 
celebrated the bestowal upon him of the Order 
of the Garter by sending to King Edward, 
under the care of Prince Arthur of Connaught 
— who bestowed the insignia upon him — a 
truly magnificent specimen of native silver- 
work. There is likewise a silver pipe from the 
ex-Sultan of Turkey, and a gold cigar-box of 
striking workmanship that was presented to 
King Edward by the actors of England as a 
recognition of the many benefits that he 
bestowed upon their profession. 

To give even the briefest catalogue of the 
treasures contained in this room would be to 
fill this magazine. The whole of the silver 
and gold plate usually used at Marlborough 
House is stored here:, and every item in 
the collection is carefully numbered and 



entered into large books kept specially for 
the purpose. Thus it is possible for any 
article to be produced at a moment's notice. 
In addition to Queen Alexandra, the only 
person who has keys admitting him to any of 
the cases in the Treasure Room is General 
Sir Dighton Probyn, V.C. Needless to add, 
the precautions taken against burglary at 
Marlborough House are the most elaborate 
that could be devised, and Bill Sikes would 
have but a very poor chance of success even 
if he succeeded in eluding the vigilance of 
the outer guard that constantly patrols the 
grounds throughout the night. 

The chief of the State apartments is the 
saloon } which stands upon the ground floor 
and is entered direct from the wonderfully 
handsome en trance- hall. This is the most 
spacious apartment in the whole house, and 
contains the priceless Gobelin tapestries of 
which so much is often heard. Of even more 
interest, however, is the handsome pier-glass 
over the marble mantelpiece. This bears 
upon it the date, April 28, 1863. This was 
the day upon which the then Prince of Wales 
and his beautiful bride entered into possession 

her private apartments- Often, however. 
Queen Alexandra will descend to the saloon 
if there is anyone present whom she specially 
desires to honour and escort them to her 
drawing-room in person. 

The saloon is likewise utilized as the 
outer reception chamber upon the occasion 
of a large dinner-party at Marlborough 
House. The Red Drawing-Room is directly 
approached from the saloon. It is 
one of the most handsomely- appointed 
apartments in the whole of the reception 
suite. Its principal attraction consists of 
beautifully-executed life-size paintings of the 
late Queen Victoria, the Prince Consort, the 
late Empress Frederick of Germany, and 
Queen Alexandra. There is likewise an inte- 
resting little painting upon a side-table of 
Queen Alexandra on horseback. This paint- 
ing whs executed to the order of the late King 
Edward, and was for many years in his private 
room before being placed in its present 

(lose to the reception suite stand the 
official apartments of the principal officers 
of Her Majesty's household, Perhaps the 







who desire to make any inquiries as to Her 
Majesty's movements, etc. This is a plainly 
but comfortably -furnished apartment, and 
gains its principal interest from the pictures 
upon the wails, which are devoted almost 

House, and it is to be doubted if there is 
a more efficiently-administered residence in 
the whole of the kingdom. Queen Alexandra 
is a most kindly and thoughtful mistress, and 
no little services that are rendered to her are 


jw^ W WV^W*fl*wVk f ^ V W WV V V WYWVW^tiEtf V tyyqEW 



exclusively to commemorating the late King's 
connection with the Turf. There is, for 
instance, a large painting of the desperate 
finish for the Derby of 1896, when His 
Majesty's horse f Persimmon, just got the 
best of Mr. Leopold de Rothschild's St. 
Frusquin, thus gaining for its Royal owner 
his first u Blue Ribbon of the Turf." Per- 
simmon was always King Edward's favourite 
horse. Other horses shown on the walls of 
the Equerries' Room are Diamond Jubilee and 
Ambush II ,, the latter of which placed the 
Grand National to the credit of the late King. 

The room of General Sir Dighton Probyn, 
Y.C., Her Majesty's Comptroller of the House- 
hold, is closely adjacent, and it is here that 
the whole business of the administration of 
Queen Alexandra's affairs is carried out* 

It has been truly said that everything pro- 
ceeds as though by clockwork at Marlborough 

permitted to go unrecognized. Everyone, 
from the highest to the lowest, is fully 
acquainted with the work he or she is retained 
to perform , and they are expected to do it 
without any undue supervision. Many acts 
of kindness and generosity on the part of 
Queen Alexandra are recounted by all those 
who have served at her town residence for 
any length of time. Her Majesty is very 
solicitous as to the future of all who have 
served under her, and no old servant is allowed 
to leave her employ without a suitable pension. 
It can scarcely be wondered at, therefore, 
that she is almost idolized by those in her 
household, and that her smallest wish is 
carried out almost as soon as it is spoken. In 
her manner towards those in her employ, as 
in so many other instances, Queen Alexandra 
is a worthy example to the women of thi-. 


VpL jclv.^a 

The photographs it 

Original from 

** *>* ^U^IfflWdHUICHIGAN 

A / 

ADY TRENCH was looking 

strangely excited, while Sir 

Ranulph, a surly man who 

seldom unbent to anyone, 

appeared ill at ease and 

worse tempered than usual. 

The staff at Coddrington Hall 

had been informed that visitors were expected 

for the New Year, but the names of the guests 

did not transpire. 

Sir Ranulph and Lady Trench appeared 
unusually secretive ; they always spoke 
guardedly at meals now when the servants 
were in the room* Kalpin. an old retainer , 
who had maided Lady Trench as a girl, felt 
convinced some mystery was afloat. 

" f wouldn't be surprised/' she said to 
Hill, the butler, * L if Mr. Leonard were corning 
home, after all these years. Though he is 
never mentioned, I can't believe an only son 
will be cut off for good and alb" 

Thrilled by her own prophecy, Hal pin wore 
an expectant air as she dressed Lady Trench's 
luxuriant locks, streaked with grey, 

u The visitors come to-morrow, don't they, 
my lady ? " she ventured to remark. 

She noticed in the glass that her mistress's 
lips trembled. 

** Halpin," she said. <k you are like an old 
friend, and I want you to help me. I feel I 

The Boy in 



Illustrated by Ruhy LincL 

must tell you the great sorrow of my life. I 
am sure you will not abuse my confidence/* 

Halpin grew pink to her forehead with 
eager anticipation, as she assured the speaker 
of her absolute fidelity. 

c * You remember," said Lady Trench, 
" when Mr, Leonard left us very suddenly 
eight years ago to live abroad. Well, I could 
not speak of it then, but, though a mere boy, 
he was married. We arranged for him to 
hide away in a far-off mining camp, to save 
the disgrace of his mesalliance with a foreign 
dancer, Estelle Reine. From that day his 
father intended never to speak to him again, 
but now this woman is dead, and my boy is 
returning to me with his only child. I dread 
to think what the little girl will be like, 
dragged up in a Calif or nian settlement, where 
her mother rubbed shoulders with the roughest 
men. You can assist me by keeping Miss 
Kara out of the way, and helping to correct 
any dreadful errors of behaviour." 

Halpin was trembling all over- The 
thought of seeing Mr, Leonard again was too 
much for her composure 3 as she cheered Lady 
Trench with regard to the child. 

Certainly New Year's Eve, the day of 
arrival, became filled with magic importance, 
A grandchild was coming to Coddrington 
Hall ; the patter of little feet and the sound 
of youthful laughter would again be heard. 
Leonard himself was not yet thirty t and his 
wife had been dead for two years, so he had 
passed the first stage of grief. 

Only Sir Ranulph looked glum and frown- 
ing as the hour drew near for the arrival of 
the guests. He was seated with his wife 
over a great log fire in the old raftered hall. 
Above the chimney hung two family por- 
traits — a srnp.l! girl in a long, old-world frock 

^iimtttwffliftis# curIs and wide 



grey eyes, next to a boy wearing a suit of 
blue satin. They represented Sir Ranulph's 
father and mother in childhood, and now he 
sat with his eyes fixed on the familiar paintings. 

" I wish/' he muttered, half under his 
breath, "that Leonard had left his brat 
behind. This is no place for her. She'll be 
a thorn in your flesh, Monica, an untamed 
savage tainted by her mother's blood." 

Lady Trench raised her head a little proudly. 

" It is just possible," she replied, clinging 
to a faint hope, " that our son's breeding may 

The tower clock chimed five, and Lady 
Trench sprang to her feet as she caught the 
sound of an approaching vehicle. Her heart 
beat so wildly she could hardly draw her 
breath ; then she saw the menservants 
hurrying to the door. Clutching the back 
of a high carved chair, she watched with 
dim eyes for the coming of her New Year's 
guests. Leonard strode in, tall and erect, as 
if no shadow of shame had ever fallen on his 
life. He was bronzed from years spent 
beneath a baking sun, and looked far hand- 
somer than when he had left his home of 
luxury. Beside him walked Kara, a tiny girl 
in a long, quaintly-cut dress, exactly similar 
to the old portrait of her great-grandmother. 
The same picture bonnet rested, apparently, 
on the very same curls ; the child in the hall 
might have stepped out of the frame, so like 
was she in feature, as well as dress, to her 
Trench ancestress. 

Sir Ranulph and his wife stood for a moment 
transfixed ; then mother and son were clasped 
in each other's arms. Kara, seeing the old 
man alone, drew near to him and stretched 
out a friendly hand. 

" Are you grandpapa ? " she asked. " Or 
is it the other gentleman ? " 

She glanced back at Hill, who had picked 
up a little ermine stole she dropped as she 
ran forward. 

The clear, childish voice had no note of 
commonness, only a musical ring, to which 
Sir Ranulph turned a deaf ear. 

" She cannot even tell a gentleman from a 
servant," he thought, as he shook off the 
clinging fingers with a curt " How do you 
do ? " 

As no other woman was present, Kara 
had no doubt who was her grandmother. 
She pulled at Lady Trench's skirt, and, 
pointing up to the mantelpiece, asked, with 
all simplicity :— 

" Please, who is the little boy in blue, 
standing next my likeness ? " 

" She thinks it is herself," said Leonard, 

Digitized by \jOOglC 

with an amused smile. " I considered her 
so like my grandmother that I made a sketch 
of the frock, to remind me of the old days. 
She has been always asking me to draw her 
pictures of Coddrington. By the way, is 
Halpin still alive and with you ? " 

As Lady Trench nodded assent, Kara 
began dancing about with sudden glee, and 
the old man noticed with aversion how light 
were her steps, remembering the mother's 

" I want to see Halpin," Kara declared, 
emphatically. " She's the one that makes 
toffee, isn't she ? " 

" Her sole desire," thought Sir Ranulph, 
" is to get to the servants' hall." 

Leonard felt already the uncongeniality of 
his father's stiff attitude, and, in order to 
escape the glacial gaze, he told Kara they 
would go together and " fish Halpin out at 
once." Lady Trench followed, and her 
husband sank back in the old oak chair to 
gaze into the red sea of coal, with drawn 
brows and unsmiling mouth. 

When Leonard and his mother were alone 
he gave her a brief outline of the past. 

" You never saw Estelle," he said, " so 
you cannot imagine how beautiful she was. 
Of course, we were both very young ; we 
were just like children together, enjoying 
every moment of life. She was simply 
adored in California ; all those rough men 
could not have treated her with greater 
respect had she been a duchess. Two years 
ago a bad epidemic of fever broke out ; then 
Estelle showed what she really was. The 
men went down like flies under the plague, 
and she nursed them day and night till every 
vestige of her own strength was worn out. 
Finally the fever seized her wasted frame, 
and she died in two hours. I thought at 
the time I should have to send Kara home 
to be taken care of in England, but those 
men whose lives Estelle had saved made it 
possible for me to keep my little one in the 
camp. Scrupulously they guarded and pro- 
tected the child they felt Estelle had left as a 
sacred trust. No foul word, no coarse jest, 
ever reached Kara's ears. A new-comer 
would have been half-murdered if he had not 
behaved like a gentleman in the baby's 
presence. I don't think you will find her 
spoilt, though we have all been her slaves. 
The only thing she can't understand is any 
unkindness or lack of geniality." 

" Her grandfather's attitude, for instance/' 
murmured Lady Trench, with a heavy sigh. 




" Perhaps you noticed he did not kiss her ; 
but time may alter his bitterness, and I, for 
one, shall welcome the New Year in with a 
light heart. Oh, Leonard, it's good to see 
you back- i -almost too good to be true." 

As Leonard and his mother discussed past 
days Halpin was revelling in the society of 
Kara, who was explaining exactly what she 
thought of Coddrington and its inhabitants. 

" This house seems rather quiet after our 
other home," she said. " I hope some day 
I shall live in a tent again. The men used 
to sing at night — like this." 

Standing up with her arms akimbo, she 
imitated one of the old camp songs familiar 
to her from babyhood. 

" I used to dress like a boy there," she 
continued ; " and I had three ponies. There 
were no old men, and they rather puzzled me, 
because they were not a bit like papa and his 
friends. I thought grandfathers were people 
who took the children on their knees and 
loved them a little. Why doesn't my grand- 
father love me, Halpin ? " 

" Oh, but he does, my dearie," said the 
maid, blushing at the blatant lie ; " but 
sometimes he has an attack of gout." 

Suddenly Kara's face grew serious, as if 
with increased knowledge. 

" Perhaps," she said, " all men don't like 
little girls." 

" Well, I must own," added Halpin, " the 
master is far fonder of boys. But you can't 
help not being a grandson. I often see him 
staring up at those pictures in the hall, and 
it's always the boy in the blue suit he looks 
at specially. If you are very good you shall 
see in an old carved chest the very suit that 
your great-grandfather wore when that por- 
trait was painted." 

Kara was so impatient to examine the 
relic that Halpin was obliged to take her at 
once to the box-room and unearth the little 
tunic, the white lace ruffles, and still unfaded 
breeches with their paste buttons. 

When the fanciful costume had been duly 
admired, Halpin unfolded the evening's 

" You are to lie down and go to sleep for 
some hours," she said ; " then, after dinner, 
I shall dress you and bring you down to hear 
the New Year singers, who will be coming 
quite late. They are singing for money, but 
they are not poor people, as you might sup- 
pose. It's something quite novel this year. 
The gentry are performing, and collecting 
money for the hospital. They are coming to 
us last, as Lady Trench has asked them all 
to supper to see the New Year in." 

Realizing that Miss Kara ought already 
to be asleep, Halpin tucked her away in a 
cosy bed without further conversation, for 
she was anxious to get a few words with 
Mr. Leonard to tell him how delighted she 
was with the beautiful child, who had come 
like a ray of sunshine to gladden the New 
Year at Coddrington Hall. 

Kara, tired from the excitement of arrival, 
dropped quickly off to sleep. Her brain was 
full of Halpin's words, and she dreamt she was 
the little grandson Sir Ranulph might have 
loved. Then she woke with a sense of fear 
and disappointment, to find herself alone in 
the dimly-lighted room, a jumble of confused 
thoughts floating through her mind. 

" When I want anything very badly," she 
told herself, " I just make-believe, and it 
seems all right. I wonder if grown-up people 
do that too ? " 

A sudden idea had taken hold of the 
sensitive nature, as she remembered what 
she had seen in the old box-room upstairs. 
Tremulously she crept forth from her bed, 
determined to carry out a very great and 
important undertaking. This was New 
Year's Eve, and grandpapa must be made 
happy. No matter that the long corridors 
were winding and dreary, and the lumber- 
room to which Halpin had taken her a place 
where ghostly visitants might hover. Setting 
her teeth, she took a deep breath, and started 
on her pilgrimage, carrying a lighted candle, 
the flickering flame revealing a deep intensity 
in the childish eyes. 

Kara herself might have been some tiny 
spectre of the past, creeping along barefooted 
in quest of a hidden prize. As she entered 
the tomb -like chamber, where boxes were 
piled one upon the other, as coffins in ancient 
vaults, her youthful imagination created a 
thousand fears, very real to the baby heart. 
Monstrous figures with gaping mouths and 
outstretched arms sat on the arched lids of 
giant trunks. Scampering feet could be heard 
in the walls, and the ivy outside, stirred by 
the evening breeze, tapped the window-panes. 
Balancing her candle on the edge of an old 
spinning-wheel, she mastered a wild desire to 
turn tail and fly back to inhabited rooms. 
Instead she dived boldly into the box which 
held the coveted garment. 

With eager hands she gathered up the 
boy's costume in its folds of tissue paper, and 
just as she held it close to her heart a sudden 
draught b)ew c>jt the candle, which fell with 
a crash to the ground. A ghostly ray of 



moonlight gaided her to the passage outside, 
along which, with pulses beating wildly and 
a heart that almost stood still, she flew like 
the wind to the old oak staircase leading 
back to the cosy bedroom. 

" 1 think the ghosts need not have blown 
the candle out/* she said, with a gasp, as she 
deposited her treasure on the floor, " They 
may have thought I was stealing grandpapa's 
clothes. Perhaps children did not play at 
4 make-believe ' in those days. 1 ' 

For a few moments the little form trembled 
so violently that dressing became difficult ; 

be undisturbed. He drew a large chair to 
the hearth, lowered his reading-lamp, and 
tried to forget disturbing elements in sleep, 

His eyes had been closed some moments 
before he heard a faint footfall in the room. 
Too lazy to look round , he merely buried his 
chin deeper in his collar, when the touch of a 
tiny and very cold finger fell like a snowflake 
on his wrist. With a start he opened his 
eyes, telling himself he must be dreaming. 
There, in the bright light from some old sea- 
logs, stood a blue-coated figure, a slim, 
upright boy with laughing eyes and parted 


but gradually as she forgot her terror the charm 
of donning that picturesque suit filled her 
with ecstatic delight. 

11 1 must brush back my curls like a boy," 
she said, "and throw my ribbons away," 

When at last Kara emerged in her blue satin 
finery she was so unlike her usual self that 
she might have been one of the eerie visions 
of dead love and passion which haunt old 
homes. Sir Ranulph had retired to his 
smoking-room alone after dinner. He told 
Leonard to stay and talk to his mother, for 
the old man was out of temper and wished to 

lips, materialized from a picture- 
frame in the raftered hall* 

Sir Ranulph sat bolt upright 
now, and placed his hand on the 
child's shoulder to make sure it was not a 

Kara was the first to speak. 
" I'm your little grandson," she said, 
holding herself very erect, as if proud of the 
fact. H Of course I quite see you didn't like 
that stupid girl, and one must be happy on 
New Year's Eve. I w r as sorry to hear you 
were rather upset, and it must be horrid to 
have gout, A boy knows just how a man 
feels, so I came to try and cheer you up." 
Kara had never looked prettier than at this 

Uroe suited her 








childish grace to perfection, showing how 
perfectly the little figure was moulded. 

11 How did you get those clothes ? ?J asked 
Sir Ranulph, surprised and puzzled by this 

" I found them in a dreadful room/' she 
answered, with a shiver. " My candle blew 
out , and I was all alone in the dark. But 
boys are never afraid of that kind of thing," 

She laughed derisively as she spoke, and 
something in the laughter brought vividly 
back to Sir Ranulph the memory of his 
mother. Kara rontinued speaking in her 
delightfully confidential tone : — 

" It was Halpin told me you were much 

fonder of boys— that's why I 
decided to be a boy this 
evening, I wanted you to like 
fte, and I never thought about 
men not liking girls before, 
because in the camp they were 
all my friends ; but you see 
they were not old enough to 
be grandfathers/ 1 

11 So you think/* said Sir 
Ranulph, " that grandfathers 
are all old bears who hate 
children, and have to be 
amused by pretence ? " 

" Father and I always 
make-believe when we arc 
unhappy/* Kara responded. 
li Sometimes we would pretend 
we were at Coddrington Hall 
with you and grandmamma. 
We did that last Christmas, 
and it was so nice." 

The child had drawn nearer 
to him now and, with an air of 
unconscious friendliness, was 
leaning against his shoulder. 
Sir Ranulph felt a strange 
stirring in his veins as the 
contact of that small, sweet 
body touched his own con- 
gealed clay. Was it possible 
that the child had made him 
share her dream of " sup- 
posing,'' and that he was 
imagining himself an amiable 
old gentleman in the presence 
of a grandson w r ho would carry 
on his name ? He felt a wild 
desire to kiss the masqueradcr, 
and gradually, as if drawn by 
some strong magnetic power, 
the grey head came nearer the 
floating curls on the point-lace 
collar. Suddenly the fact 
broke upon him that this child had made an 
effort in her simple^ primitive way to soothe 
his disappointment and cheer the desert waste 
of an embittered heart. Oddly enough, she 
wanted his love, and now, with an unexpected 
rush of feeling, he craved for her affection. 
A desire to draw those baby wrists about 
his neck became an obsession. Without a 
moment's warning he caught Kara up in his 
arms, placed her on his knee, and laid the 
curly head against his shoulder. She 
knew r at once her conquest was complete. 
Com fort a lily . she . nestled close to his 
breast, whit h hei^ff 1 quickly with stifled 
emittfctite'fRi'pctntimeoud^j.Asltte touched the 



withered cheek, surprised to see his eyes 
were moist. 

Warmly Kara kissed him with all the fervour 
of demonstrative childhood , still thinking it 
was only because she pretended to be a boy 
that he held her thus closely and made peace. 

As the joy-bells chimed out two contrast- 
ing figures came hand- in- hand down the 
broad staircase — a very old man with a smile 
upon his face 3 and a boy in blue satin who led 
him protectingly, weighing 
still, in infantile imagination, 
the sorrows of a gouty foot. 

After the silent, unseen , 
ghost-like New Year had been 
heralded in far and wide 
throughout the kingdom, a 
sleepy little blue-clad figure 
was carried to bed in an old 
man's arms. 

For a few moments Sir 
Ranulph sat before the nursery 
fire to warm Kara's toes. He 
waved away the astonished 
Halpin, as he unbuttoned the 
small kid shoes with their 
large rosettes, • 

"I saw the New Year quite 
plainly," whispered Kara. 
" Did you catch sight of him, 
grandpapa ? " 

44 No," replied the old man. 
tl My eyes are dim. What was 
he like, tittle one ? n 

Kara's face was full of 
mystery as she answered : — 

"He was very tiny and 
white. He flew down on a 
snowflake, and stood over by 
the dark trees, waiting for 
us to let him in, I suppose 
next Christmas he will be old 
1 ike you . H e ha sn ' t ver y long 
to live, but perhaps he is 
thinking now he will be young 
for ages and ages." 

Sir Ranulph took up her fantasy 

" He has the spring for youth 
and the warm summer for maturity. 
In middle age he enjoys the beauty 
of autumn. Then the winter com is 
and snuffs him out, and another 
year will be born, whether we are here or not. 
We must look for the tiny white phantom 
together, every New Year's Eve, till I leave 

Sir Ranuiph's voice quivered slightly, and 
Kara caught the sound of a half- drawn sigh. 

" I won't let you leave me/ } she said 3 
hugging him with all the strength of her 
baby arms. "Never! Never! Never!" 

" s Never 3 is a long word/ 1 he murmured, 
" even on New Year's Day. Let us make the 
most of the present, for I have only just found 
my little f Blue Boy/ H 

14 as the Wfin[Wkffir<flH MKi> OVT TVVO 





Illustrated by H. K. Elcock. 

AM often asked how I invent 
illusions* It is a very difficult 
question to answer, because 
with such work it is impos- 
sible to proceed on well- 
ordered lines. One cannot 
say to oneself , " To-morrow I 


will sit down and invent 
an illusion/' However. 
I will describe some of 
the ways in which I have 

First, I get an idea 
for a plot or story, just 
as the writer of a book 
does. That idea grows 
very grad ually , and , 
like a rare bloom, has 
to be tended very care- 
fully. Sometimes I have 
to call in the assistance 
of specialists in different 
branches of science in 
order to make the flower 
grow. Possibly the 
flower has to be grafted 
on to another before it 
finally expands into 
exhibition form. 

The first question I 
have to propose to 
myself is, " What shall 
1 do ? " The question, 
'/How shall I do it?' ] 
is quite a secondary con- 
sideration, because there are always many 
means or devices available for obtaining an 
effect. That is the reason why so many 

illusions are pirated ; the inventor cannot pro- 
tect the effect— that is to say. the illusion as 
the audience see it. The only thing he can do 
in the way of protecting his own work is to 
take out a patent for the machinery that he 
uses to obtain the effect he requires. I have 
been fortunate enough to discover several 
illusions which have 
never been reproduced 
by other performers. On 
the other hand, 1 have 
originated other illusions 
which have been copied 
by magicians all over 
the world. 

The first stage illu- 
sion I ever produced 
was suggested by the 
title of the book, "Vice 
Versa/' by Mr, Anstey, 
In this case the effect 
I wished to produce on 
the minds of the audi- 
ence was this. I wanted 
to convince them, by 
demonstration and 
under conditions which 
seemed to preclude any 
idea of trickery, that I 
could turn a man into 
a woman* The lady was 
asked to step into a four- 
posted structure, and to 
stand on a board three 
feet square raised by 
means of posts four fee" from the floor. Above 
the board on which the lady stood the four 



of covering her 
at the moment 
of the trans- 
formation, The 
audience could 
see there was no 
spare room in the 
structure in 
which to conceal 
a child. It was 
obviously impos- 
sible, therefore, 
that a man could 
be hidden in the 



This skeleton cabinet was placed in the 
centre of the stage of the Opera Theatre at 
the Crystal Palace. Everyone could see all 
around it* A long tape was tied round the 
lady's waist, and the ends were thrown out 
to spectators seated in the stalls. Two 
members of the audience were asked to hold 
the tapes tightly and to report if they felt any 
movement of the tapes. 

I drew the little curtains, and when I 
again opened them, after an interval of about 
thirty seconds, the lady had become a man, 
and the tape which had been tied round 
her was tied round the man, although the 
ends were still held by the two members of 
the audience. 

My wife was my assistant on that occasion 
and we nearly had a very serious accident. 
We had tried the illusion on a platform, but 
not on the stage of a theatre. In those days 
theatre stages were invariably built with a 
11 rake " — that is to say, with a slanting floor. 
Owing to the <( rake " of the stage, the appa- 
ratus became top-heavy directly my wife got 
into it, and the whole thing began U> topple 

VgL *lv,-4. 

over towards the footlights. Had I 
not been able to save the 'cabinet in 
the nick of time there would have 
been no performance that evening — 
except 3 possibly, the disappearance 
of my wife into the big drum, and 
there would have been nothing 
magical about that, 

Mr, Maskelyne saw this, my first 
big illusion, but the apparatus was 
too large for the tiny stage of the 
Egyptian Hall. When he explained 
this to me I at once undertook to 
evolve something else. I went home t 
and in a few days returned to Mr. 
Maskelyne with a complete model of 
" The Artist's Dream," which I set 
out on a table in his office. I went 
home with the model of my illusion 
in a bag and a model contract in my 
pocket. Mr. Maskelyne was to build 
the illusion and produce it in the 
form of a sketch ; at that time I 
could not have borne the expense of 
such an undertaking myself. It was 
arranged that I should appear and 
introduce my own illusion, and at the 
same time makd my dibut as a con- 
jurer at the world's headquarters of 

This same " Artist's Dream" I 
have just lately revived, and I am 
playing it on my present vaudeville 
tour. The effect is very simple. A 
picture on an easel apparently comes to life. 
A picture-dealer unconsciously suggested this 
effect to me. My father, who was an artist, 
was showing the dealer a picture of some 
cattle drawing u plough. The dealer asked 
the price of the picture, and my father stated 

the FJRTH^ 

by Google 

Original from 



a sum. The dealer replied, " Yes, 111 give 
you that when those bulls come to life,*' In 
the few seconds that it takes to say that 
sentence I thought of " The Artist's Dream/' 
a picture that comes to life. 

Another of my early illusions, " The Birth 
of Flora," was suggested by a passing glimpse 
at a florist's shop. I saw a girl arranging 
some roses in a gilded basket, and this is how 
the illusion f based on that id a, was presented. 
A small table stood on the slage. Above it a 
banner was hun# ; the banner was merely 
hooked on to a bar of wood suspended from 
the ceiling by two cords. Having produced a 
bowl of fire and placed it on the table, I went 
down to the audience, discovered a white 
rose in a lady's cloak, and asked her permission 
to use it in the illusion, I pulled the rose to 
pieces and threw the petals into the bowl of 
fire. I then lowered the banner so that it 
hid the bowl for a moment, and when I raised 
it the burning rose had Income a huge basket 



of roses. 

Over this 1 

t h r v w a 

silk shaw 

Then a voice was t 

and the shaw 

it was throw 

Present I v 


standing in the basket of 

Some of my illusions have 
been suggested by current 
events. The old popular song, 
" The Honeysuckle and the 
Bee/* suggested an illusion called 
" The Enchanted Hive," in 
which the principal " prop " 
was an enormous beehive, A 
man who took up his quarters 
in this hive became his own 
sweetheart, dressed as a Brob- 
dingnagian bee* He afterwards 
turned into a detective, who was 
the villain of the piece- The 
illusion was used to tell the 
story, in a kind of burlesque, 
of a melodramatic sketch. 

Baroness Qrezy kindly gave 

_ , me permission to use the title 

'^F*iWmk L " Beau Brocade," 





dress was changed in an instant to one 

suitable for a fancy dress balk 

"St. Valen- 
tine's Eve" 
was the title of 
an illusion 
I invented 
simply because 
I had to think 
of something 
t h a t no con- 
jurer had ever 
done before. 
The illusion 
formed the 
theme of a 
little sketch. A 
fa sheet of news- 
paper was hung 

Jmp* * 


for that of an illusion, I am afraid the 
title had not much to do with the illusion, 
but I wanted a good title, and could think of 
nothing better. The illusion consisted in 
making a. girl disappear while 1 was carry- 
ing her in my arms in the midst of the audi- 
ejice and causing her to reappear in a box 
lined with glass and raised from the stage. 
Another illusion with a happy title was '" The 
Burmese <Jong/ J suggested by seeing an old 
gong in a shop. Three people were placed 
in different positions on the stage, and every 
time the gong was sounded they played a 
kind of invisible " family coach." 

My " Magic Cloak " illusion was suggested 
by a very ordinary everyday event , but I 
hesitate to say much about it in print. I 
was waiting for my wife one evening, and it 
occurred to me that the invention of a magic 
cloak, the wearing of which would imme- 
diately turn one dress into another, would be 
very desirable. So I invented one. In the 
illusion my assistant wore an ordinary 
evening gown, fastened at the back with 
hooks- Ladies in the audience were invited 
to examine it and make sure that the dress 
was fastened in the usual way. Then the 
assistant put on, the " Magic Cloak/' and the 



Original from 



up in the centre of the stage 
and a lighted match put to it. 
Before the newspaper had burnt 
away it changed into a large 
white envelope, which opened, 
disclosing a valentine of the old- 
fashioned kind, but the figure in 
the valentine was alive. 

My wife used to have a habit 
of turning my photograph upside 
down as a protest against a fit 
of bad temper on my part, One 
day, when we were laughing over 
this, I suggested that she would 
like to treat me in the same way. 
And then an idea came to me. 
I strapped a page-boy to a board, 
put him in a small cabinet, hung 
it up in the centre of the stage 
for a second, opened the doors, 
and there he was — still strapped 
to the board, hut head down- 
wards- This was quite a novel 
illusion, and we offered a prize of 
fifty pounds for the best title for 
it. " The New Page w was the 
prize-winning title. 

Everyone has heard of the 


me inwan 



Indian Rope Trick, but 
how many people have 
ever seen it ? 

It is said that the 
magician throws a rope 
into the air, that it 
remains there rigid, 
that a boy (limbs up 
the rope and disap- 
pears. Sometimes that 
story is embroidered 
with other fairy stories. 
We reproduced the 
trick on the stage of 
St. George's Hall, but 
with this slight differ- 
ence. Owing to want 
of space we could not 
throw a rope in the 

Original^ itwouldhave S ot 


2 9 


entangled with our " fties/' So we had 
the rope hanging from the " flies 7 * at 
the beginning of the illusion. The Indian 
climbed up and duly disappeared in mid- 
air. Many people used to think at first 
that the Indian was an automaton, 
because he was magically produced from 
the pieces of a dummy which I threw 
into a flat basket ; but, of course, long 
before the illusion was over it was 
obvious that the figure was that of a 
live man, 

A little trick with a metal tube and 
a handkerchief, shown to me by my 
mechanician, Mr, Bate, suggested the 
illusion " Diogenes." Mr. Bate, by the 
way j has often helped me over a 
difficulty with a little practical advice ; 
and I am glad of this opportunity of 
saying "Thank you ! " to him in public. 
The effect of the handkerchief trick was 
as follows. The metal tube was closed 
at both ends with pieces of tissue-paper. 
The conjurer then had to make a hand- 

kerchief vanish, and he after- 
wards found it in the tube } 
although the ends were still 
closed with pieces of tissue- 
paper* I suggested to Mr. Bate 
that he should make this trick 
in a large size, using a man in 
place of the handkerchief and a 
bottomless tub in place of the 
metal tube. To make the illusion 
stronger than the original trick 
I devised an improvement. The 
paper with which I dose up 
the ends of the tub can be 
marked by the audience, and 
thus everyone can see that the 
papers are neither changed nor 
broken. This improvement made 
a great difference to the effect 
of the illusion, Mr. Bate and 
I worked on this together, 
and it has been one of the 
must successful illusions in my repertoire— 
so successful, in fact, that it has been copied 
by magicians all over the world. However, 
as the right method has not been used, 


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Original from 



the best part of the illusion has 
never been reproduced. 

When the controversy about 
the discovery of the North Pole 
was going on I dressed up 
Diogenes as a chefs, joke was 
intended there — and brought 
him to the Arctic regions in St. 
George's HalL He walked into 
p kind of cave j decorated with 
snow and icicles, and started to 
" discover " the North Pole, 
He usually accomplished this 
task in about half a minute, 
and while he stood there, clasp- 
ing the icy Pole, he slowly 
changed into a large Polar bear 
with a card round his neck an- 
nouncing that he was the actual 
discoverer of the Pole. For the 
device used in this illusion I 
was indebted to Mr. Walker, 
who at one time was a confrere 
of Professor Pepper, 

On one occasion, during a six 

weeks' season in Vienna, I had 

to give the whole two hours* 

entertainment in German , and 

had one month 

which to 



learn the lan- 
guage. As if 

that was not 

by Google 

enough for 

me, I wanted 

to surprise 

my friends at 

'i o m e by 

wringing back 

with me an 

entirely new 

illusion. Mr. 

Bate and I 

put our heads 

together, and 

evolved an 

illusion which 

I called " The 


Breakfast/' I 

drew a rough 

sketch of a 

giant's head, put it in a frame, 

and had it hung in the centre of 

the stage. Presently the sketch 

turned into a giant egg. and 

when this was lowered into an 

egg -cup an d was c r a eke d , a 

" human chicken " was hatched 

out of it. When I got home 

from Vienna the whole world was 

agog with ML Rostand's play, 

il Chantecler/' and so, instead of 

drawing a picture of a giant's 

head, I sketched the head of M. 

Rostand, making it look like an 

egg, and tacked the rest of the 

illusion on to it. 

I have to thank some light 
baths for the idea of the illusion 
which I called " The New 
Chocolate Soldier/' In this a 





dream. One night I got out 
of bed in my sleep,, picked 
up u candle, and went through 
the action of catching a huge 
but quite imttginary moth. 
In the morning I told my 
dream to my wife, who sur- 
prised me by telling me that 
I had tl acted *" my dream. 
And then I started to wonder 
if I could make an illusion 
out of it. 

man, dressed up and made to 
resemble a soldier made of chocolate, 
is apparently melted down until he 
is only about a foot high, but still 
very much alive. The little figure 
was an automaton, made by Mr. 
Nevil Maskelyne, who has always 
been willing to collaborate with 
irie in the production of new 
illusions, I owe him an immense 
debt of gratitude, Mr, Maskelyne 
had the training of an engineer ; 
I had not. I am quite sure that 
if he were called upon to do so 
Mr. Maskelyne could make the 
whole of an illusion with his own 
hands, and I am afraid that if I 
tried to drive in one small nail 
I should probably bungle the job. 
One day the elder Mr. Maske- 
lyne, knowing my ignorance of 
mechanics, laughingly challenged 
me to produce some thi rig like 
" Psycho," his whist-playing auto- 
maton. In six w r eeks' time, although 
I was greatly handicapped by 
knowing nothing of mechanics. I 
was able to show Mr, Maskelyne 
" Dyno." A model of a hand was 
placed in a glass case* Members ol 
the audience were invited to come 
on to the stage and play a game of 
dominoes with the hand, which 
moved about of its own accord 
and picked up each domino at the 
right time. 

"The Mascot Moth" illusion, 
over which 1 spent some years of 
hard work, was the mnrmne tit a 

Digitized by Google 

Original from 




Suppose a woman , dressed as a moth ? came 
fluttering on to the stage f and suppose I went 
towards her with a candle, and when her 
wings touched the flame she disappeared as 
the moth of my dream had vanished — I did 
not know r where. Suddenly I had an idea j 
I had thought of a way of 
doing it. It seemed quite 
simple to me, but when I 
went through it with Mr. 
Maskelyne he said that it 
was the trickiest thing he 
had ever seen, and he 
prophesied failure. The 
prophecy nearly came true. 
Many times, when I was 
experimenting with " The 
Mascot Moth," I wished 
I had dreamt of some- 
thing else. 

Some time ago I in- 
vented a trick called 
" Bogey Golf." A model 
of a putting green was 
stood on the stage, and 
members of the audience 
were invited to come up 
and try their skill. When 
I wished them to succeed 
they were able to putt— 
provided that they were 
ordinarily good players ; 
but when I wished them 
to fail they could not putt 

a ball. In order that this 
trick could be seen easily by 
evervone in the audience. I 
had a large mirror made and 
placed in a stand near the 
putting green. Then it 
occurred to me to do some- 
thing with that large mirror, 
and I thought of a tale that 
one of my property men 
once told me. Pie had been 
painting a large mask — a 
monkey's head — at his lodg- 
ings, and, wishing to see the 
effect of it , he slipped it over 
his head and looked at him- 
self in the glass. At that 
moment his landlady, carry- 
ing a large tray of tea 
things, looked in at the door, 
saw the reflection of the 
monkey's head in the glass, 
screamed , and dropped the 
tray- She afterwards ex- 
plained that she thought she 
had seen the devil. When a member of 
the audience looks into my magic mirror he 
sees other things beside the reflection of 

" The Window of the Haunted House " was 
invented in an unusual way. A new device 


Original from 



for producing a vanishing person effect was 
brought to me by Mr. Julian Wylie, but I 
did not consider the effect novel enough, nor 
was it quite practicable for public presenta- 
tion. So I had to set to work to think of 
an entirely new effect that would suit the 
device. This was reversing the usual plan 
of work, for the triore simple process of getting 

an illusion had occurred to me. I thought I 
would put some screens on a large table, and 
produce within the enclosed space a fairy 
grotto, twinkling with lights. My grotto 
was to be inhabited by a real live fairy— that 
is to say, a lady who played the part of a 
fairy in the sketch of which the Magic Grotto 
formed a part. The fairy naturally sneered 

an illusion consists in thinking of an effect 
and then casting about for some means of 
producing il. 

A dinner-party suggested another illusion, 
1 was dining at a nobleman's house which 
is celebrated for^ among other things, the 
beauty of the table decorations. On this 
occasion they consisted of a kind of 
grotto, with fairy lights and flowers. Before 
we had reached the fourth course an idea for 

at everything which I ; as a magician, did in 
the sketch. 

Sometimes illusions are suggested by the 
authors who have written plays for St. 
George's Hall. The illusions in " The 
Magician's Heart/' by E« Nesbit, in " A 
Fallen Idol," by Mr. Anstey, and in M All 
Souls' Eve," by the Marchioness Townshend, 
were all suggested by the authors of those 


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Original from 

N their home town of Keeps- 
burg the Keeps were the 
reigning dynasty, socially and 
in every way. Old man Keep 
was president of the tram- 
way line j the telephone com- 
pany, and the Keep National 
Bank. But Fred, his son, and the heir appa- 
rent, did not inherit the business ability of 
his father ; or, if he did, he took pains to 
conceal thai fact. 

When Fred arranged an alliance with 
Winnie Piatt, who also was of the innermost 
inner set of Keepsburg, everybody said 
Keepsburg would soon lose them. And 
everybody was right. When s ingle , each 
had sighed for other social worlds to conquer, 
and when they combined their fortunes and 
ambitions they found Keepsburg impossible, 
and they left it to lay siege to New York. 

The point from which the Keeps elected 
to launch their attack was Scarboro-on-lhe- 
Hudson. They selected Scarboro because 
both of them could play golf, and they planned 
that their first skirmish should be fought 
and won upon the golf-links of the Sleepy 
Hollow Country Club, But the attack did 
not succeed. Something went wrong. They 
knew no one, and no one knew them. That 
is, they did not know the Van Wardens ; 
and if you lived at Scarboro and were not 
recognized by the Van Wardens, you were 
not to be found on any map. 

Since the days of Hendrik Hudson the 

Tke Man 

m Canvas. 


Illustrated fcy 

W. R. S. Stott. 


country seat of the Van Wardens had 
looked down upon the river that 
bears his name, and ever since those 
days the Van Wardens had looked 
down upon everybody else — except 
'* Harry " Van Warden, and he lived 
in New York at the Turf Club. 

Harry, according to all local tradition — 
for he frequently motored out to Warden 
Koopf, the Van Warden country seat — and 
according to the newspapers, was a devil of 
a fellow, and in no sense cold or unsociable. 
So far as the Keeps read of him, he was 
always being arrested for overs pee ding, or 
breaking his collar-bone out hunting, or 
losing his front teeth at polo. 

" If you would only play polo or ride to 
hounds j instead of playing golf/' sighed 
Winnie Keep to her husband, " you would 
meet Harry Van Warden, and he'd introduce 
you to his sisters, and then we could break 
in anywhere.' 1 

11 If I was to ride to hounds," returned 
her husband, " the only thing I'd break 
would he my neck." 

The country place of the Keeps was com- 
pletely satisfactory. The house was one they 
had rented from a man of charming taste and 
inflated fortune ; and with it they had taken 
over his well-disciplined butler, his pictures, 
furniture, family silver, and linen. It stood 
upon an eminence, was heavily wooded, and 
surrounded by many gardens ; but its chief 
attraction was an artificial lake well stocked 
with trout, that lay directly below the terrace 
of the house, and also in full view from the 
road to Albany, 

This latter fact caused Winnie Keep 
much concern. In the neighbourhood were 
many Italian labourers, and on several nights 


by GOOgle 



the fish had tempted these born poachers to 

" It makes me nervous/' complained 
Winnie. " I don't like the idea of people 
prowling around so near the house. And 
think of those twelve hundred convicts, not 
one mile away, in Sing Sing. Most of them 
are burglars, and if they ever get out our house 
is the very first one they'll break into." 

" I haven't caught anybody in this neigh- 
bourhood breaking into our house yet," said 
Fred, " and I'd be glad to see even a burglar ! " 

They were seated on the brick terrace that 
overlooked the lake. It was just before the 
dinner hour, and the dusk of a wonderful 
October night had fallen on the hedges, the 
clumps of evergreens, the rows of close- 
clipped box. A full moon was just showing 
itself above the tree-tops, turning the lake 
into moving silver. Fred rose from his 
wicker chair and, crossing to his young bride, 
touched her hair with the tips of his fingers. 

" What if we don't know anybody, Win," 
he said, " and nobody knows us ? It's been 
a perfectly good honeymoon, hasn't it ? If 
you just look at it that way, it works out all 
right. We came here really for our honey- 
moon, to be together, to be alone " 

Winnie laughed shortly. " They certainly 
have left us alone ! " she sighed. 

" But where else could we have been any 
happier ? " demanded the young husband, 
loyally. " Where will you find any prettier 
place than this, just as it is at this minute, 
so still and sweet and silent ? There's nothing 
the matter with that moon, is there ? Nothing 
the matter with the lake ? Where's there a 
better place for a honeymoon ? It's a bower 
— a bower of peace, solitude — a bower of " 

As though mocking his words, there burst 
upon the sleeping countryside the shriek of 
a giant siren. It was raucous, virulent, 
insulting. It came as sharply as a scream 
of terror, it continued in a bellow of rage. 
Then, as suddenly as it had cried aloud, it 
sank to silence ; only after a pause of an 
instant, as though giving a signal, to shriek 
again in two sharp blasts. And then again 
it broke into the hideous, long-drawn scream 
of rage, insistent, breathless, commanding ; 
filling the soul of him who heard it, even of 
the innocent, with alarm. 

" In the name of Heaven ! " gasped Keep, 
" what's that ? " 

Down the terrace the butler was hastening 
towards them. When he stopped he spoke 
as though he were announcing dinner. " A 
convict, sir," he said, " has escaped from 
Sing Sing. I thought you might not under- 

Digiiized by OOOQlC 

stand the whistle, and that perhaps you 
wotrid wish Mrs. Keep to come indoors." 

" Why ? " asked Winnie Keep. 

" The house is near the road, madam," 
said the butler. " And there are so many 
trees and bushes. Last summer two of them 
hid here, and the keepers — there was a fight." 

The man glanced at Keep. Fred touched 
his wife on the arm. 

" It's time to dress for dinner, Win," he 

" And what are you going to do ? " 
demanded Winnie. 

" I'm going to finish this cigar first. It 
doesn't take me long to change." He turned 
to the butler. " And I'll have a cocktail, 
too. I'll have it out here." 

The servant left them, but in the French 
window that opened from the terrace to the 
library Mrs. Keep lingered irresolutely. 
" Fred," she begged, " you — you're not going 
to poke around in the bushes, are you — just 
because you think I'm frightened ? " 

Her husband laughed at her. " I certainly 
am not," he said. " And you're not frightened, 
either. Go in. I'll be with you in a minute." 

But the girl hesitated. Still shattering 
the silence of the night, the siren shrieked 
relentlessly ; it seemed to be at their very 
door, to beat and buffet the window-panes. 
The bride shivered and held her fingers to 
her ears. 

" Why don't they stop it ! " she whispered. 
" Why don't they give him a chance ! " 

When she had gone Fred pulled one of the 
wicker chairs to the edge of the terrace, and, 
leaning forward with his chin in his hands, 
sat staring down at the lake. The moon had 
cleared the tops of the trees, had blotted 
the lawns with black, rigid squares, had 
disguised the hedges with wavering shadows. 
Somewhere near at hand a criminal — a 
murderer, burglar— was at large, and the 
voice of the prison he had tricked still 
bellowed in rage, in amazement, still 
clamoured not only for his person, but 
perhaps for his life. The whole country- 
side heard it ; the farmers bedding down 
their cattle for the night ; the guests of 
the Briar Cliff Inn, dining under red 
candle-shades ; the " joy-riders " from the 
city, racing their cars along the Albany road. 
It woke the echoes in Sleepy Hollow. It 
crossed the Hudson. The granite walls of 
the Palisades flung it back against the granite 
walls of the prison. Whichever way the 
convict turned, it hunted him, reaching for 
him, pointing him out — stirring in the heart 
of each who heard it the lust of the hunter, 

I a I I I '.' I 1 1 




which never is so cruel as when the hunted 
thing is a man. 

" Find him ! " shrieked the siren. " Find 
him ! He's there, behind your hedge ! He's 
kneeling by the stone wall. That's he run- 
ning in the moonlight. Thafs he crawling 
through the dead leaves ! Stop him ! Drag 
him down ! He's mine ! Mine ! " 

But from within the prison, from within 
the grey walls that made the home of the 
siren, each of twelve hundred men cursed 
it with his soul. Each clinging to the bars 
of his cell, each trembling with a fearful 
joy; each, his thumbs up, urging on with 
all the strength of his will the hunted, rat- 
like figure that stumbled panting through 
the crisp October night, bewildered by 
strange lights, beset by shadows, staggering 
and falling, running like a mad dog in circles, 
knowing that wherever his feet led him the 
siren still held him by the heels. 

As a rule, when Winnie Keep was dressing 
for dinner Fred, in the room adjoining, could 
hear her unconsciously and light-heartedly 
singing to herself. It was a habit of hers 
that he loved. But on this night, although 
her room was directly above where he sat 
upon the terrace, he heard no singing. He 
had been on the terrace for a quarter of an 
hour. Gridley, the aged butler who w f as 
rented with the house, and who for twenty 
years had been an inmate of it, had brought 
the cocktail and taken away the empty 
glass. And Keep had been alone with his 
thoughts. Thty were entirely of the convict. 
If the man suddenly confronted him and 
begged his aid, what would he do ? He knew 
quite well what he would do. He considered 
even the means by which he would assist 
the fugitive to a successful get-away. 

The ethics of the question did not concern 
Fred. He did not weigh his duty to the 
State of New York or to society. One day, 
when he had visited " the institution," as a 
somewhat sensitive neighbourhood prefers to 
speak of it, he was told that the chance of a 
prisoner's escaping from Sing Sing and not 
being at once retaken was one out of six 
thousand. So with Fred it was largely a 
sporting proposition. Any man who could 
beat a six-thousand-to-one shot commanded 
his admiration. 

And, having settled his own course of 
action, he tried to imagine himself in the 
place of the man who at that very moment 
was endeavouring to escape. Were he that 
man, he would first, he decided, rid himself 
of his tell-tale clothing. But a man without 
elcthes would be quite as conspicuous as 

one in the purple-grey cloth of the prison. 
How could he obtain clothes ? He might 
hold up a passer-by, and, if the passer-by did 
not flee from him or punch him into insensi- 
bility, he might effect an exchange of gar- 
ments ; he might by threats obtain them 
from some farmer ; be might despoil a 

But with none of these plans was Fred 
entirely satisfied. The question deeply per- 
plexed him. How best could a naked man 
clothe himself ? And as he sat pondering 
that point, from the bushes a naked man 
emerged. He was not entirely undraped, 
for around him he had drawn a canvas 
awning. Fred recognized it as having been 
torn from one of the rowboats on the lake. 
But, except for that, the man was bare 
to his heels. He was a young man of Fred's 
own age. His hair was cut close, his face 
smooth-shaven, and above his eye was a 
half-healed bruise. He had the sharp, clever, 
rat-like face of one who lived by evil know- 
ledge. Water dripped from him, and, either 
for that reason or from fright, the young man 
trembled and, like one who had been running, 
breathed in short, hard gasps. 

Fred was astonished to find that he was 
not in the least surprised. It was as though 
he had been waiting for the man, as though 
it had been an appointment. 

Two thoughts alone concerned him : that 
before he could rid himself of his visitor 
his wife might return and take alarm, and 
that the man, not knowing his friendly 
intentions, and in a state to commit murder, 
might rush him. But the stranger made no 
hostile move, and for a moment in the moon- 
light the two young men eyed each other 

Then, taking breath, and with a violent 
effort to stop the chattering of his teeth, 
the stranger launched into his story. 

" I took a bath in your pond," he blurted 
forth, " and — and they stole my clothes ! 
That's why I'm like this." 

Fred was consumed with envy. In com- 
parison with this ingenious narrative, how 
prosaic and commonplace became his own 
plans to rid himself of accusing garments 
and explain their absence. He regarded the 
stranger with admiration. But, even though 
he applauded the other's invention, he could 
not let him suppose that he was deceived 
by it. 

" Isn't it rather a cold night to take a 
bath ? " he said. 

As though in heartv agreement, the man 



" It wasn't a bath," he gasped. " It was 
a bet ! " 

M A what ? '* exclaimed Fred. His admira- 
tion was increasing, " A bet ? Then you 
are not alone ? " 

" I am now — confound them ! " exclaimed 
the canvas-clothed one. He began again 
reluctantly, " We saw you from the road, 
you and a woman sitting here in the light 
from that room. They bet me 
I didn't dare strip and swim 

when there burst in upon them the roaring, 
scream of the siren. The note now was of 
deeper rage } and came in greater volume. 
Between his clenched teeth the stranger 
cursed fiercely, and then, as though to avoid 
further questions, burst into a fit of coughing. 
Trembling and shaking,, he drew the canvas 
cloak closer to him. But at no time did his 
anxious, prying eyes leave those of Keep, 


across your pond with you sitting so 
near. I can see now it was framed up on 
me from the start. For when I was swim- 
ming back I saw them run to where I'd left 
my clothes , and then I heard them crank up, 
and when I got to the hedge the car was 
gone I * 

Keep smiled encouragingly. *' The car ! " 
he assented. C1 So you've been riding in the 
moonlight.' 1 

The other nodded, and was about to speak 

" You — you couldn't lend me a suit of 
clothes, could you ? " he stuttered. * ( Just 
for to-night ? I'll send them bark. It's all 
right/' he added j reassuringly. " I live near 
here/ 1 

With a start Keep raised his eyes, and, 
distressed by his look, the young man con- 
tinued less confidently, 

" I don't blame you if you don't believe 
it," he stamn lered J f rearing me like this; 
but I iMfefiW^PWCtfira Everybody 



around here knows me, and I guess you've 
read about me in the papers, too. I'm — 

that is, my name " Like one about to 

take a plunge, he drew a short breath, and 
the rat-like eyes regarded Keep watchfully. 
" My name is Van Warden. I'm the one you 
read about — Harry ; I'm Harry Van 
Warden ! " 

After a pause, slowly and reprovingly Fred 
shook his head ; but his smile was kindly, 
ewen regretful, as though he were sorry he 
could not longer enjoy the stranger's con- 

" My boy," he exclaimed, " you're more 
than Van Warden ! You're a genius ! " He 
rose and made a peremptory gesture. 
" Sorry," he said, " but this isn't safe for 
either of us. Follow me, and I'll dress you 
up and send you where you want to go." 
He turned and whispered over his shoulder : 
" Some day let me hear from you. A man 
with your nerve " 

In alarm the other, with a gesture, com- 
manded silence. 

The library led to the front hall. In this 
was the coat-room. First making sure the 
library and hall were free of servants, Fred 
tiptoed to the coat-room and, opening the 
door, switched on the electric light. The 
canvas-clad man, leaving in his wake a trail 
of damp footprints, followed close at his 

Fred pointed at golf-capes, sweaters, great- 
coats hanging from hooks, and on the floor 
at boots and overshoes. 

" Put on that motor-coat and the goloshes," 
he commanded. " They'll cover you in case 
you have to run for it. I'm going to leave you 
here while I get you some clothes. If any of 
the servants butt in, don't lose your head. 
Just say you're waiting to see me — Mr. Keep. 
I won't be long. Wait." 

" Wait ! " snorted the stranger. " You bet 
I'll wait ! " 

As Fred closed the door upon him the 
stranger was rubbing himself violently with 
Mrs. Keep's yellow golf-jacket. 

In his own room Fred collected a suit of 
blue serge, a tennis shirt, boots, even a tie. 
Underclothes he found ready laid out for 
him, and he snatched them from the bed. 
From a roll of money in his bureau- 
drawer he counted out a hundred dollars. 
Tactfully he slipped the money in the trousers- 
pocket of the serge suit, and with the bundle 
of clothes in his arms raced downstairs and 
shoved them into the coat-room. 

" Don't come out until I knock," he com- 
manded. " And/' he added, in a vehement 

whisper, " don't come out at all unless you 
have clothes on ! " 

The stranger grunted. 

Fred rang for Gridley and told him to 
have his car brought round to the door. He 
wanted it to start at once — within two 
minutes. When the butler had departed 
Fred, by an inch, again opened the coat- 
room door. The stranger had draped him- 
self in the underclothes and the shirt, and at 
the moment was carefully arranging the 

" Hurry ! " commanded Keep. " Thecar'll 
be here in a minute. Where shall I tell him 
to take you ? " 

The stranger chuckled excitedly ; his 
confidence seemed to be returning. " New 
York," he whispered, " fast as he can get 
there ! Look here," he added, doubtfully, 
" there's a roll of bills in these clothes." 

" They're yours," said Fred. 

The stranger exclaimed vigorously. " You're 
all right ! " he whispered. " I won't forget 
this, or you either. I'll send the money back 
same time I send the clothes." 

" Exactly ! " said Fred. 

The wheels of the touring-car crunched on 
the gravel drive, and Fred slammed the door 
to, and like a sentry on guard paced before 
it. After a period which seemed to stretch 
over many minutes there came from the inside 
a cautious knocking. With equal caution 
Fred opened the door the width of a finger 
and put his ear to the crack. 

" You couldn't fi$d me a button-hook, 
could you ? " whispered the stranger. 

Indignantly Fred shut the door and, walk- 
ing to the veranda, hailed the chauffeur. 
James, the chauffeur, was a Keepsburg boy, 
and when Keep had gone to college James had 
accompanied him. Keep knew the boy could 
be trusted. 

" You're to take a man to New York," he 
said, " or wherever he wants to go. Don't 
talk to him. Don't ask any questions. So, 
if you're questioned, you can say you know 
nothing. That's for your own good." 

The chauffeur mechanically touched his 
cap and started down the steps. As he did 
so the prison whistle, still unsatisfied, still 
demanding its prey, shattered the silence. 
As though it had hit him a physical blow, 
the youth jumped. He turned and lifted 
startled, inquiring eyes to where Keep stood 
above him. 

" I told you," said Keep, " to ask no 

As Fred re-entered the hall Winnie Keep 
was coming down the stairs towards him, 






She had changed to one of the prettiest 
evening gowns of her trousseau* and so out- 
rageously lovely was the combination of 
herself and the gown that her husband's 
excitement and anxiety fell from him, and 
he was lost in admiration. But he was not 
for long lost. To his horror , the door of 
the coat-room opened towards his wife and 
out of the room the stranger emerged, 
Winnie, not accustomed to seeing young 
men suddenly appear from among the dust- 
coits, uttered a sharp shriek. 

With what he considered great presence 
of mind, Fred swung upon the %dsitor. 
11 Did you manage it ? " he demanded. * 
The visitor did not heed him. In amaze- 
ment, in abject admiration, his eyes were 

by L^OOgle 

fastened upon the beautiful and radiant 
vision presented by Winnie Keep, But he 
also still preserved sufficient presence of 
mind to nod his head dully, 

£l Come/' commanded Fred. " The car is 

Still the stranger did not move. As 
though he had never before seen a woman, 
as though her dazzling loveliness held him 
in a trance s he stood still, gazing, gaping, 
devouring Winnie with his eyes. In her turn, 
Winnie beheld a strange youth who looked 
like a groom out of livery, so overcome 
by her mere presence as to be struck motion- 
less and inarticulate. For protection she 
moved in some alarm towards her husband. 

The stranger gave a sudden jerk of his 
Original from 




body that might have been intended for a 
bow. Before Keep could interrupt him, 
like a parrot reciting its lesson he exclaimed 
explosively : — 

" My name's Van Warden. I'm Harry 
Van Warden." 

He seemed as little convinced of the truth 
of his statement as though he had announced 
that he was the Czar of Russia. It was as 
if a stage-manager had drilled him in 
the lines. 

But upon Winnie, as her husband saw to 
his dismay, the words had produced an instant 
and appalling effect. She fairly radiated 
excitement and delight. How her husband 
had succeeded in capturing the social prize 
of Scarboro she could not imagine, but, for 
doing so, she flashed towards him a glance 
of deep and grateful devotion. 

Then she beamed upon the stranger. 
" Won't Mr. Van Warden stay to dinner ? " 
she asked. 

Her husband emitted a howl. " He will 
not ! " he cried. " He's not that kind of a 
Van Warden. He's a plumber. He's the 
man that fixes the telephone ! " 

He seized the visitor by the sleeve of the 
long motor-coat and dragged him down the 
steps. Reluctantly, almost resistingly, the 
visitor stumbled after him, casting back- 
ward amazed glances at the beautiful lady. 
Fred thrust him into the seat beside the 
chauffeur. Painting at. the golf-cap and 
automobile goggles which the stranger was 
stupidly twisting in his hands, Fred whispered, 
fiercely : — 

" Put those on ! Cover your face ! Don't 
speak ! The man knows what to do." 

With eager eyes and parted lips, James 
the chauffeur was waiting for the signal, 
Fred nodded sharply, and the chauffeur 
stooped to throw in the clutch. But the car 
did not start. From the hedge beside the 
driveway, directly in front of the wheels, 
something on all fours threw itself upon the 
gravel. Something in a suit of purple-grey ; 
something torn and bleeding, smeared with 
sweat and dirt ; something that cringed and 
crawled, that tried to rise and sank back upon 
its knees, lifting to the glare of the headlights 
the white face and white hair of a very old, 
old man. The kneeling figure sobbed ; the 
sobs rising from far down in the pit of the 
stomach, wrenching the body like waves of 
nausea. The man stretched his arms towards 
them. From long disuse his voice cracked 
and broke. 

" I'm done ! " he sobbed. " I can't go no 
farther ! I give myself up ! " 

Above the awful silence that held the 
four young people the prison siren shrieked 
in one long, mocking howl of triumph. 

It was the stranger who was the first to 
act. Pushing past Fred, and slipping from 
his own shoulders the long motor-coat, he 
flung it over the suit of purple-grey. The 
goggles he clapped upon the old man's 
frightened eyes, the golf-cap he pulled down 
over the white hair. With one' arm he lifted 
the convict, and with the other dragged and 
pushed him into the seat beside the chauffeur. 
Into the hands of James he thrust the money. 

" Get him away ! " he ordered. " It's only 
twelve miles to the Connecticut line. As 
soon as you're across buy him clothes and a 
ticket to Boston. Go through White Plains 
to Greenwich — and then you're safe ! " 

As though suddenly remembering the 
presence of the owner of the car, he swung 
upon Fred. " Am I right ? " he demanded. 

" Of course ! " roared Fred. He flung his 
arm at the chauffeur as though throwing him 
into space. 

" Get out of here ! " he shouted. 

The chauffeur, by profession a criminal 
but by birth a human being, chuckled 
savagely, and this time threw in the clutch. 
With a grinding of gravel the racing-car 
leaped into the night, its ruby rear lamp 
winking in farewell, its tiny siren answering 
the great siren of the prison in jeering notes 
of joy and victory. 

Fred had supposed that at the last moment 
the younger convict purposed to leap to the 
running-board, but instead the stranger 
remained motionless. 

Fred shouted impotently after the flying 
car. In dismay he seized the stranger by the 

" But you ? " he demanded. " How are 
you going to get away ? " 

The stranger turned appealingly to where, 
upon the upper step, stood Winnie Keep. 

" I don't want to get away," he said. " I 
was hoping, maybe, you'd let me stay to 

A terrible and icy chill crept down the 
spine of Fred Keep. He moved so that the 
light from the hall fell full upon the face of 
the stranger. 

" Will you kindly tell me," Fred demanded, 
" who the deuce you are ? " 

The stranger exclaimed peevishly. " I've 
been telling you all evening," he protested. 
" I'm Harry Van Warden ! " 

Gridley, the ancient butler, appeared *n 
the open door. . 

Dinner is served, madam," he said. 




The stranger g&TO an exclamation of 
pleasure, " Halloa , Gridley ! " he cried. 
" Will you please tell Mr. Keep who I am ? 
Tell him if hell ask me to dinner I won't 
steal the spoons/ 5 

Upon the face of Gridley appeared a smile 
it never had been the privilege of Fred Keep 
to behold. The butler beamed upon the 
stranger fondly, proudly, by the right of long 


Shall 1 

Gridley coughed tentatively, 
open a bottle, sir ? " he asked. 

Hopelessly Fred tossed his arms heaven- 

" Open a cast ! Tf he roared. 

At ten o'clock, when they were still at 
table and reaching a state of such mutual 
appreciation that soon they w f ould be calling 



acquaintanceship, with the affection of an 
old friend. Still beaming, he bowed to 

"If Mr, Harry— Mr. Van ^Yarden,' , he 
said, " is to stay to dinner, might I sug- 
gest, sir t he is very partial to the Paul 
Vibert '84 ? " 

Fred Keep gazed stupidly from his butler 
to the stranger and then at his wife. She 
was again radiantly beautiful and smilingly 

each other by their first names, Gridlev 
brought in a written message he had taken 
from the telephone. It was a long-distance 
call from Yonkers, sent by James, the faithful 

Fred read it aloud, 

" I got that party the articles he needed/ 
it read, " and saw him safe on a train to 
Boston, On the way back I got pinched for 
speeding the car on the way down. Please 
send money l r) r jLj^|iflr < j r fjell in Yonkers/' 


My Reminiscences 

of 4 " Peter Pan. 




is a very curious fact that 

when Mr t J. M. Barrie imbued 

Peter Pan with everlasting 

youth, by some strange gift 

f magic he also bestowed 

upon those fortunate enough 

to be destined to play the 

part of " the boy who wouldn't grow up n 

an everlasting enthusiasm for the role, and, 

personally speaking, although I have been 

Peter Pan on over a thousand occasions, I 

feel to-day even more in love with my part 

than when I attended the first rehearsal, 

which was— it's wonderful how time flies, 

isn't it ? — actually just over seven years ago, 

I often wonder what I should have been 

doing to-day had I not been selected to play 

Peter. Somehow or other, I have grown so 

fond of the part that it has seemed to 

become, like a big bit of myself — in fact, 

to-day I really cannot imagine December, 

January, and February coming round without 

my being summoned to become a boy once 

mine. Curiously enough, it was through 

illness that the great chance of my theatrical 

career turned up. It happened in this way. 

Seven long years ago 1 was understudying 

Miss Cecilia Loftus. who was then playing 

Peter Pan. One afternoon, however, Miss 

Loftus caught a severe chill, and wired to 

the theatre she would be unable to play 

the part that night* 

Naturally enough, the management was 
tremendously perturbed.- In the first place, 
no one knew .where -jo find me, and so through- 
out .the .aft^B(m_ jtfi@l>hone messages were 





sent here, there , and everywhere in 
Edinburgh, where the company was 
then appearing, until eventually I was 
discovered — buying ribbons, if I re- 
member rightly. The news that I 
was to play Peter at first literally 
terrified me', for I realized that I was 
about to take part in u an awfully big 
adventure." Still, I just clenched my 
teeth, and hoped for the best. 

Just before 1 was going on the 
stage a certain member of the com- 
pany stopped me in the wings and 
said :— 

4( Would you feel more nervous than 
ever if Mr, Barrie chanced to be sitting 
in front ? " 

''Good heavens!" I said, growing 
pale through my make-up at the 
thought, <l If Mr. Barrie were to be in 
front I think I should faint with sheer 

i( Weil you'll be saved that un- 
pleasant experience;' was the reply, 
s * because he can't possibly have had 
lime to travel from London to Edin- 

So for the moment I felt reassured ; 
for, you must know^ to take up the 
leading part in the play at a few 
minutes' notice is an ordeal which 
the most experienced actress would regard 
as terrifying in the extreme. 

But, like Peter Pan himself, Mr. Barrie 
would seem to 
possess the secret 
recipe for the manu- 
facture of " flying 
powder/' for, won- 
derful to relate, he 
was in front that 
night, sitting in a 
box. And, as I felt 
at the timCj still 
inure wonderful to 


.■-••■- s 

: : 



«= -§, 


relate ? at the end of the performance he 
came round to my dressing-room, congratu- 
lated me most heartily on my humble efforts, 
and there and then engaged me 
to play the part of Peter Pan in 
London on the following Christ- 
mas, and — well ? to cut a long 
story short. I have been Peter 
Pan ever since ; and, from the 
never - failing popularity of the 
play, all being well, it would seem 
that I am likely to be Peter Pan 
for many years to come. 

And now let me tell vou about 


by Google 



some of my behind-the-scenes reminiscences 
of this hardy and ever-youthful annual. First 
of all, I would point out that all sorts of things 
happen in " Peter Pan " which never happen 
In any other play. Thus every December a 
terrifying cere- 
mony takes 
place, and this 
is the measur- 
ing of the chil- 
dren who play 
in it. They are 
measured to see 
whether they 
have grown too 
tall, and they 
can all squeeze 
clown in to about 
two inches less 
than they really 
are ; but this 
does not deceive 
the manage- 
ment, who have 
grown fright- 
fully knowing, 
and sometimes 
they frown 
horribly at you 
and sav, sternly, 
"We shall 
pa,ss you this 

year, but take care, madam, take care!" And 
sometimes you are told, li It won't do. my lad; 
you've grown out of knowledge. We are sorry 
for you, but — farewell ! " Yes, measuring day 
is one of the tragedies of " Peter Pan/' 

I wonder, by the way, whether any other 
actors and actresses have ever received quite 
so many letters as the artistes who appear 
in this play? I scarcely think it possible, 
for, if weighed, the letters sent to me would 
register tons and tons. We all get these 
letters ; I'm sure Wendy could paper her 
room with hers, and Smee also has a large 
number. Wendy and I are sometimes rather 
jealous of Smee, w r ho is surely the best-loved 
of wicked people. He says scarcely a word 
in the play of which he ought not to be 
itshamedj and he makes (or thinks he makes) 
the most horrifying faces. But this does not 
in the least affect the love of children for 
him ; they seem to regard him as a dear, 
misguided creature whose heart is in the 
right place , whatever he says or does, and 
they write daily asking him to come to tea 
and bring the sewing-machine. They would 
let him cut them up with his pirate knife 
with perfect confidence. 


Captain Hook is the one who makes them 
hold their breath. We hear the shudder of 
them when he announces that he is to do 
for us with poisoned cakes, and we hear gasps, 
too, and wriggles, as if someone wanted to 
get nearer his mamma, and we see. perhaps, 
a box suddenly look empty, because the 
occupants are now hiding in the back of it 

But soon they 
creep into view 
again, because 
of a rumour 
that Peter is 
getting the 
better of Hook, 
and they shout 
out advice to 
me about where 
to hit him, and 
are uproariously 
when I win, the 
reason for this 
(as I have dis- 
covered) being 
not so much 
anxiety about 
me as a firm 
conviction — in 
every one of 
the boys, at all 
events — that 
he is Peter. You never, never, never can 
tell how the awful villainy of Hook will 
affect children* 

Their fear is very often pretence, which 
heightens their enjoyment, and the ones 
whom he made scream may afterwards tell 
their puzzled parents that they liked him 
best of all. They may also tell it to us, for 
they shout out their thoughts to us across 
the footlights, addressing us by name with 
pleasing frankness. u Don't believe him, 
Peter ! " they cry, u Peter, look out ; he's 
coming down the tree ! " Or, *' How are you, 
Wendy ? I'm here to-day." Or (agreeable 
to the box-office), " 1 say, Slightly, I'm coming 
every day when Fm a man/' 

I know of one little girl whose mother 
expected to have to comfort her in the agony 
scene, when Hook puts his head in at the 
door and glares at Peter asleep, ThU is the 
moment that curdles their blood most* But 
she was not dismayed. u 1 do love that 
man" she called out, so loudly that we all 
heard her. No, you never can tell how they 
will take it. Hook has a soliloquy on the 
pirate ship^ V No little children love me/' and 
stern vouwfflllronfQiiDve been heard calling 




out in reply, " Serves you right." But all 
are not so hard-hearted, I remember two 
mites being brought round behind the scenes, 
because they had something they wanted to 
say to Captain Honk ; hut awe fell upon 
them when he shook their hands — with his 
hook — and they could only stare at him and 
say not a word. When he had gone, however, 
they looked very woeful, and kept repeating. 
(t We wanted to tell him — we wanted to tell 
him ! " and they explained to me that what 
they wanted to tell him was that they loved 

But if the children in the audience love Hook 
\ try dearly. I somehow don'l think they can 
possibly be as fond of him as is Mr. Barrie 
of the children who play in " Peter,'* Mr. 
Barrie seems to take a fatherly interest in 
each and every child, and to see him telling 
them stories, asking them riddles, and some- 
times arranging tea-parties for them, would, 
1 am sure } make even the most world-weary, 
tired, Warfman 
or woman of 
the world feel 
a child once 

Mr. Barrie, I 
must tell you. 
is awfully fond 
of giving the 
children — he 
appears to in- 
clude me in the 
list — puzzles to 
do and riddles 
to answer. 
Personal ly, 
I'm the great- 
est dunce in 
the world at 
both puzzles 
and riddles, 
and never 
guess the right 
answer j but 
some of the 
other "chil- 
dren ' f are 
ever so much 
sharper, and 
even if they 

don't happen to light upon the correct 
41 booky " solution, they at least provide 
replies which possess the merit of being 
distinctly convincing. 

Thus, one afternoon last year* Mr. Barrie 
was talking to a tiny mite who was standing 
looking very forlorn, waiting to go on the 



stage. After asking her name, age, and so 
on and so forth* he said r — 
M Do you like riddles ? * 
" I loves 'em/' said the child, her big blue 
eyes growing Lugger in the delightful expecta- 
tion of having a riddle to answer* 

" Then I wonder if you can tell me why 
a miller wears a white hat ? " said Mr, 
Barrie, smilingly, evidently having decided 
to give the tiny tot an easy one to commence 

The child thought for a moment; with 
puckered brows* Then she replied, ex- 
citedly : — 
w In course I do," 
" Why ? ,T said Mr. Barrie, 
" 'Cos the man who sells hats had sold 
out of all other colours/ 5 she replied* 

And who will dare say that her information 
was wrong ? Between ourselves. I may tell 
you that I don't think Mr, Barrie has ever 
put another conundrum to that child* for he 
seemed to realize that she possessed a soul 
above such simple childish queries. 

But let me tell you about some of the 
letters I receive. On occasions the postman 

has delivered 
as many as 
over a hundred 
at one post, of 
which the fol- 
lowing is a 
typical speci- 
men : — 
"Dear Peter 
Pan j — I came 
to see you act 
on Feb. ist, 
and I liked it 
so much, I and 
my sister and 
my N a n n a 
came, I would 
like to have u 
dog for my 
nurse, do you 
get much 
money for act- 
ing I would like 
to be mickle 
(Michael) and 
the crocodile j how is Tinker Bell and the Pir- 
retts* and are they quite well and the dog. 
please give my love to them all please are you 
a girl or a boy I am a little boy of seven years 
old and I will be 8 in May and my sister is 
5 and she will be 6 in May 14th and my birth- 
davison May 27th audi mv papa's is on June 




17th and my mama's is on June the 10th. Will 
you come and see us, and show us how to fly 
from your loving Augustus Hugh — — . > 

"I would like to fly so much, and I would 
show other people how to." 

This young gentleman should grow uj>a 
second Datas. The passion he expresses for 
flying seems to be common to most children, 
for I get hundreds of letters on this subject. 

Love-letters, too, pour in by the thousand, 
and I may tell you that I have had at least 
one offer of marriage, although, as will be 
seen, the writer was distinctly vague and 
remote in her " honourable intentions." 

This soul-stirring epistle is addressed to 
" Peter Pan, the Tree Tops, Never Never 
Land, London," and runs : — 

" My Darling, Darling Peter Pan, — 
Can you speak Frensch and German, I love 
your letter. Wil you come here when you 
are out of were bicos I would love to fli. I 
wood marri you tho I cannot bicos I am not 
yet grown up. I supose you do live in 
Fairiland. Are you marrid with Wendy if 
you are then I canot. I would like to live 
with you on the tree tops. Did you see 
Farther Christmas in fairiland from your 
lovin Adeline ." 

Just one more letter — because this one is a 
great favourite of mine. It runs as follows : — 

" Darling Peter, — I should love to be 
you. I do hope you saw me last night. I 
was in the first row of the Upper Circle. I 
waved my handkerchief to you at the end. 
Do you remember last year I sent you a big 
photo of myself and you signed it ? Do you 
think you could send me a teeny weeny letter, 
and then I will try and write like you. I go 
to boarding-school. I like you better than 
Wendy, but don't tell her because it might 
make her jelous, and I like her nearly as much 
as you. I should love you to write me a 
letter and I will send you a stamp, but if 
you don't have any time please keep the 
stamp. I should like to come and see you 
every day. I am going to be an actress if 
Mother will let me, but she says she won't 
so I shall run away wen I get older enough 
and come to you and then you can teach me 
how to be an actress. I should love to be as 
pretty as you. I have got 5 pounds in the 
bank and I would give it all if I could be like 
you. This is an awfully long letter and the 
pen has something rong with it. Now I 
must close with lots of love to Wendy but 
all my love to you from Madge. 

" P.S. — If I were a man I would marry 
you. Don't forget about writing if you have 
time. XX X X XX XX XXX X." 

Digitized by ^OOgle 

By the way, T wonder why so many people 
— editors among the number ; it's not a bit 
of use their pleading u Not Guilty," because 
I know, they are — seem to imagine that an 
actress who happens to be playing Peter Pan 
should be a sort of walking. encyclopaedia of 
general information on all sorts arid kinds of 
subjects ? In my own case during the past 
seven years I have received queries on all 
sorts and kinds of subjects, from how I should 
design a new-fashion Court dress or' make 
a sugary cake for- thie: nursery tea, down 
to whether I believe in running upstairs six 
times a day at top speed ai a cure for 

One of the most puzzling queries that have 
ever come my way was the following, which— 
was sent me by the editor of a certain influ- 
ential North-country journal : " Dear Miss 
Chase," he wrote, " I should be obliged if 
you would send me some six or seven hundred 
words on 'How you would play Macbeth.' " 
Now, the possibility of my ever being asked 
to play Macbeth has never crossed my mind, 
so that, as a dutiful godchild, I asked my 
godfather, Mr. Barrie, whether he would help 
me out on this occasion. 

He at once willingly consented to do so, 
and, on my behalf, wrote an article of the 
required length, which I signed and forwarded 
on to the editor as requested. Presumably, 
however, that gentleman did not consider 
" my " humble efforts were sufficiently 
learned to print, for the article never appeared, 
doubtless because the editor did not think 
the copy was sufficiently interesting. I 
wonder what his feelings would have been 
had he known that Mr. Barrie himself wrote 
the reply ! 

Let me here tell you another " Barrie " 
story, which was related to me not long ago 
by Mr. George Shelton, who has so often 
played the Pirate in " Peter Pan." When 
the play was produced in Paris, and on the 
last night of its run, during the performance 
Mr. Barrie came to Mr. Shelton and asked 
him to drop a French sentence into the 
middle of his famous " crocodile " speech, 
adding that he would be in the box to hear 
it. " That did it," said Mr. Shelton. "Though 
I had played with the late Mr. Toole in ' Ici 
on Parle Fran£ais,' I did not consider my 
French good enough for publication. I spent 
a miserable evening anticipating the dreadful 
line. There was Mr. Barrie in the. box, my 
cue coming along, and, thinking of my French, 
I nearly lost my English. The cue came, I 
rushed at the line, the audience thought 
something had happened, and I was much 





relieved when I 
made my final 

"Some t i ni e 
after the incident 
I happened to 
meet Mr. Barrie, 
and, knowing his 
lave for a little 
joke, I asked him 
to tell me, when 
he gave me the 
French line lo 
speak in ( Peter 
Pan/ if it was for 
the benefit of the 
soeech or for a 
joke at my ex- 
pense. He looked 
at me for a 
moment and said. 
1 My dear She It on, 
it is not decided 
yet ! ' " 

By the way. 
here is yet another 
new story about 
the author of 
"Peter Pan." As 
an ardent cricketer^ if his achievements 

is well known, tie 

Ofl THK P1RATK .Mill'* 

that line scarcely 
march with his am- 
bitions* One sum- 
mer Mr. Barrie and 
his friend, Mr. E. \\\ 
Hornungj another 
cricket enthusiast, 
were walking in the 
country when they 
came to a village 
green, on which a 
number of very, 
very old men were 
playing cricket, 

11 Ah/' said Mr. 
Hornungj joking, 
" you should bring 
your tram down to 
play tli is lot/' 

Mr. Barrio turned 
the proposal over in 
his mind, and then 
ans w e red , with 
great solemnity : — 

"No, no, Horn- 
ung ; they're too 
young, lint they 
seem a healthy lot 



lure. Go and -ask, them if their fathers are 
alive, and if so we'll challenge them/' 


4 8 


And still another story, which was 
told lo me by a very great friend of his. In 
his younger days Mr. Barrie had one great 
hobby — -collecting cigars. All his spare cash 
went in the purchase of good brands, and a 
cabinet in his chambers was full of fine cigars 
which he had * l laid down " as a connoisseur 
fills the bins of his cellar with rare wine* 
There was a boy attached to Mr. Barriers 
chambers who was far from satisfactory. He 
became, in fact, a perfect nuisance, and one 
day, when my godfather returned to his rooms 
and found the fourteen-year-old youth indulg- 
ing in a short and grimy clay pipe full of rank, 
evil-smelling tobacco, he seized the occasion 
to dismiss him. 

Two days afterwards Mr. Barrie was enter- 
taining a friend, and with some pride 
announced that he would give him " a really 


good cigar/' He went to the sacred cabinet 
which contained his expensive treasures, all 
neatly packed in layers of green lea. when, 
to his horror and dismay, he found it entirely 
empty ! In place of the matured Havanas 
he found only a laconic note from the dis- 
missed page, who wrote saying that, as his 
former master objected to a clay pipe, he had 
thought the matter over seriously, and had 
come to Mr. Barrie's own way of thinking, 
and had resolved to smoke nothing but good 
cigars for the future ! He further remarked 
that, as he had full confidence in his master's 
judgment, he begged to tender him his earliest 
thanks ! 

Miss Viva Birkett, who you will remember 
as Mrs. Darling, tells quite a good story of 

Nana, the dog, and herself. Going down- 
stairs to the stage at the Duke of York's 
Theatre, Miss Birkett met Nana (played by 
Mr, Si 1 wood) , who, on seeing her, ex- 
claimed : — 

" Don't tread on my tail, mumsie ! " 
(i Alas ! If she says, " the next minute 
I did stupidly tread on that tail, and 
out came wire springs and wool stuffing, 
and I know not what. One of the dressers 
had to patch up the mischief with safety- 
pins, but of course Nana 
could not wag her tail 
that night , and it hung 
most dejectedly through- 
out the rest of the 
evening,' 1 

Some years ago certain 
members of the " Peter 
Pan ,T company began to 
fear that, although this pre- 
cocious boy " never grows 
up," there might still be 
some sort of danger that he 
would fail to move with the 
times ; and so, in a laudable 
endeavour to make him quite 
up to date, we started the 
" Peter Pan Golf Club/ 1 
which every year holds a 
dinner, the menu of which 
is il unusuall — very un- 
usual! ! M For instance, on 
one menu which I have be- 
fore me as I write we pre- 
pared our guests for what 
we had in store for them by 
having printed on the cover 
the warning that *' to dine 
will be an awfully big 
adventure/' Then, instead 
of a list of the various 
dishes, for each course was given a saying 
from iL Peter Pan/' as follows : — 


Buck! Back! you puling spawn. 

Dark and sinister soup, have at thee. 

It's frightfully fascinating. 

l\] Ttit her they had been white rats! 

There's something | > . u I l l ■ i i r llMui them dumb critlurs. 

Fin a little bird that has broken out of the egg. 

They are rather sweet, don't you think? 

Coward y f cowardy custard, 

Brimstone and gall, what cozening i* here ! 

Oh 1 the lovely. 

She'll drink it, thinking it's milk- 


Do come out of that jug* 

Poison ? Nonsense. 







To the few people who do not understand 
** Peter Pan " language perhaps this menu 
may seem rather unintelligible, but as I am 
sure quite ninety-nine people out of a hundred 
talk " Peter Panish " I need not, I know, 
apologize for using an ** unknown ,? tongue. 

It goes without saying, of course, that since 
I have been playing Peter I have hud quite 
a number of interesting experiences, some 
amusing, some sad T and some just il betwixt 
and between." For instance, when I was 
playing in Edinburgh not long ago a certain 
children's hospital there elected to give a 
few of its convalescent inmates a chance of 
going to see the play, and for this purpose a special 
box was booked at the theatre. 

Needless to say, the fortunate children who were 
going to be allowed to have this treat were simply 
wild with excitement for days beforehand — with one 
exception, a wee and very nervous little boy, who, 
on being informed by one of the nurses that he was 
going to see " Peter Pan nt in a box, burst into a flood 
of tears, and, between his convulsive sobs, askedj 
plaintively : " Will there be a lid to the box ? " 

So much envy, by the way, was rained amongst 
the other children who were unable to go to the 
theatre through illness — only a few, unfortunately, 
were on the "convalescent list" -that, at their 
special request, I promised to pay a personal visit to 
the hospital in my u Peter Pan -1 clothes, as one of 
the children called them. Well, when I arrived, a 
certain little cripple girl who had listened with great 
big wondering eyes and mouth gaping with astonish- 
ment to the accounts of Peter's extraordinary skill as 
a 1( flyer" became so excited that a nurse, fearing 

Digitized by ^OOQ IC 

Original from 



that her little patient would make herself 
ill, inquired anxiously as to what was the 
matter. I must tell you that, at the moment, 
I had gone to visit the inmates of another 



child, with feverish anxiety, Et dat I'm wait- 
ing for Peter Pan to come back to teach me 
how to fly, so that I need never, never use my 
nasty horrid heavy crutches any more ? 5 ' 

There was one dreadfully hard-hearted 
little boy who came to the theatre not to 
clap. That was his object for coming* and 
he came round fi behind " to tell me so in the 
middle of the play. His teeth were firm set. 
u I won't dap/* he said, doggedly ; "Fm 
not going to clap," And when the time came 


they won't go to 
sleep till .she 
barks at them. 

They all love 
Nana, the dog, 
and I suppose 
l hey know she is 
played b y a 
human being, but 
not all their 
elders seem to 
know it. for we 
have heard of a 
nice old lady say- 
ing, at the end of 
the play, "It is 
wonderful how 
they train animals 
nowadays," And 
I think she was 
another nice lady 
(and probably a 
Nana herself) who 
summed tip tk Peter 
Pan " in these 
words : f( It never 
would have hap- 
pened if they had 
had a proper nurse* 1 ' 
And now Tm quite 
sure you will he 
petting quite tired 
of my rambling 
reminiscences o "f 
*' Peter Pam r I 
must, however, tell 
yon just one more 


lie didn't dap ; above the clapping 
of all the others I could hear him 
shouting from a box, " Peter, I'm 
not clapping 

I think the very nicest story I 
know about the play is one of some 
children who have an exceedingly 
prim and proper nurse, and now, 
since they have seen " Peter Pan/' 

jiiized by Google 





story, which I think provides one of the most 
< xtraordinary coincidences it is possible to 
imagine. Many years ago, when I was a tiny 
mite of four, my father and mother brought 
me over to England for a trip. At the time 
we knew very few people 
in England, and one morn- 
ing we were taking a quiet 
stroll up Regent Street^I 
was dressed in the some- 
what quaint costume 
shown in the illustration 
on this page — when, not 
looking where 1 was going, 
I bumped up against a 
tall, beautiful lady who 
was just going into a big 

For a moment I was 
afraid that she was going 
to scold me for my care- 
lessness. Instead, however, 
she looked down at me, 
and then, picking me up in 
her arms, she gave me a kiss and said, " What 
a sweet little American girl ! And what a pity 
to ever grow up ! Children/' she said, turning 
to my fat her j are ever so much nicer than 
grown-up people, don't you think ? n Who 
do you think the lady in question was ? 
I'm sure you'd never guess in a thousand 
years. She was your wonderful Ellen Terfy, 
who is now one of 
my god mothers. 
Surely it is passing 
very strange that 
she should now be 
one of my god- 
mothers 3 and that 
she should have 
made a remark 
about " children 
growing up/' for 
of course, as long 
as I'm Peter Pan, " 
it's quite impos- 
sible that I ever 
shall grow up, so 
that in this respect 
at least I have 
proved myself an 
obedient godchild. 

PAULINE chase at the Agk of four 

I seem to have written a tremendous Iot > 
but even at the risk of incurring the Editor's 
displeasure I must just add a few more lines 
to make an announcement which 1 am sure 
will be received with considerable surprise* 
.And that is that Mr, 
Charles Frohman has 
lately j and since the first 
production of " Peter 
Pan," been seriously con- 
sidering the advisability 
of adding the work of an 
artist to his many arduous 
labours. Often during 
the run of the play he 
looks into my dressing- 
room and, if I am on the 
stage, amuses himself by 
drawing pictures — the 
illustration shown on this 
page is one of his best 
efforts — which , could they 
but see them, would surely 
turn, the black-and-white 
artists of the day emeraJd-green with envy. 

And now 1 must bid you au revoir, as 
rehearsals are just about to commence ; and 
as I haven't flown for over a whole year I'm 
almost sure that I shall require a little prac- 
tice. Perhaps the hypercritical Ni children " 
among my readers may think that I have 
been a little too enthusiastic about the charms 

of my favourite 
part. So, in con- 
clusion, I will add 
a remark which I 
overheard as two 
people — they were 
apparently husband 
and wife — came 
out of the pit. 
They had evi- 
dently been having 
a very mournful 
timcj for they 
looked gloomy in 
the extreme. 

"Well," said 
the man to the 
woman, in a melan- 
choly voice, " you 
would come/' 

a ijrawint; by MR, CHARLES frohmav showing 


by Google 

Original from 

A Jot of Work 


Illustrated by E. H. SkeparcL 


HAVE always admired the 
" Synopsis of Preceding Chap- 
ters " which tops each instal- 
ment of a serial in a daily 
paper. It is so curt, so com- 
pelling. It takes you by the 
scruff of the neck and hurls 
you into the middle of the story before you 
have time to remember that what you were 
really intending to read was " How to Make 
A Dainty Winter Coat for Baby Out of 
Father's Motor-Goggles " on the next page. 
I can hardly, I think, do better than adopt 
the same method in serving up the present 
As follows : — 

Lord Freddie Bowen, visiting New York, 
has met, fallen in love with, proposed to, 
and been accepted by 
Margaret, daughter of 
Franklyn Bivatt, an unpleasant little 
millionaire with a weak digestion, a taste 
for dogmatic speech, and a personal appear- 
ance rather like one of Conan Doyle's ptero- 
dactyls. Lord Freddie has called on Mr. 
Bivatt, told him the news, and asked for 
his consent. 

Mr. Bivatt looked at Lord Freddie in 
silence. He belonged to the second and more 
offensive class of American millionaire. 
There are only two kinds. One has a mauve 
face and an eighteen-stone body, and grinds 
the face of the poor on a diet of champagne 
and lobster a la Newburg ; the other — Mr. 
Bivatt's type — is small and shrivelled, weighs 
seven stone four, and fortifies himself, before 
clubbing the stuffing out of the widow and 
the orphan, with a light repast of hot water, 
triturated biscuit, and pepsine tabloids. 

Lord Freddie also looked at Mr. Bivatt in 
silence. It was hard to believe that this 
curious little being could be the father of a 
girl who did not look really repulsive even in 
a photograph in a New York Sunday paper. 

Mr. Bivatt broke the silence by taking a pep- 
sine tabloid. Before speaking he took another 
look at Freddie — a thoroughly nasty look. The don 

fact was that Freddie had chosen an unfortu- 
nate moment for his visit. Not only had Mr. 
Bivatt a bad attack of indigestion, but he had 
received that very morning from Margaret's 
elder sister, who some two years before had 
married the Earl of Datchet, a letter which 
would have prejudiced the editor of "Debrett " 
against the British Peerage. Lord Datchet 
was not an ideal husband. Among other 
things, he was practically a lunatic, which is 
always such a nuisance in the home. This 
letter was the latest of a number of despatches 
from the seat of war, and the series, taken as 
a whole, had done much to diminish Mr. 
Bivatt's simple faith in Norman blood. One 
titled son-in-law struck him as sufficient. 
He was not bitten by a craze for becoming a 

Consequently he looked at Lord Freddie 
and said " H'm ! " 

Freddie was somewhat disturbed. In the 
circumstances " H'm ! " was scarcely an 
encouraging remark. 

" You mean ? " he said. 

" I* mean just this. When Margaret marries 
she's going to marry a real person, not v — 
his mind wandered to the absent Datchet — 
" not a pop-eyed, spindle-shanked jack- 
rabbit, all nose and front teeth and eyeglass, 
with hair the colour of butter, and no chin or 
forehead. See ? " 

Freddie started, and his eye moved hastily 
to the mirror over the mantelpiece. What 
he saw partly reassured him. True, he was 
no Apollo. He was square and bullet-headed, 
and his nose had never really been the same 
since he had ducked into instead of away 
from the Cambridge light-weight's right 
swing in the inter-'Varsity competition ; but 
apart from that he attained a pretty fair 
standard. Chin ? If anything, he had too 
much. Teeth ? Not at all prominent. Hair ? 
Light, certainly ; at school he had been called 
'* Ginger." But what of that ? No, the 
description puzzled him. 

" Am I a jack-rabbit ? " he inquired, 

" I don't know/' said Mr. Bivatt. " I 

0'*^wMfcfefj you - 1Ve never 




heard your name before, I've forgotten 
it now. What is your name ? I only know 
it's got a * Lord ' tacked on to it." 

" By Nature, Not by me. It runs in the 
blood. Don't you like lords ? " 

Mr. Bivatt eyed him fixedly and swallowed 
another tabloid. " Do you know the Earl 
of Datchet ? " he asked. 

" Only by reputation. " 

" Oh, you do know him by reputation ? 
What have you heard about him ? " 

" Well, only in a general way that he's a 
pretty average sort of rotter. A bit off his 
chump, I've heard. One of the filberts, don't 
you know, and all that sort of thing. Nothing 

** You didn't hear that he was my son-in- 
law ? Well, he is. So now perhaps you 
understand why I didn't leap at you and fold 
you in my arms when you suggested marrying 
Margaret. I don't want another Datchet in 
the family." 

" Good Lord ! I hope I'm not like 
Datchet ! " 

" I hope you're not, for your sake, if you 
want to marry Margaret. Well, let's get 
down to it. Datchet's speciality was aris- 
tocratic idleness. He had never done a day's 
work in his life. No Datchet ever had, appa- 
rently. The last time any of the bunch had 
ever shown any signs of perspiring at the brow 
was when the first Earl carried William the 
Conqueror's bag down the gangway. Is that 
your long suit, too — trembling when you see 
a job of work ? How old are you ? Twenty- 
seven ? Well, keep it to the last six years, if 
you like. What have you done since you 
came of age ? " 

" Well, I suppose if you put it that way " 

" I do put it just that way. Have you 
earned a cent in your life ? " 

" No. But " 

" It isn't a case of but. I know exactly 
what you're trying to say, that there wasn't 
any need for you to work, and so on. I 
know all that. That's not the point. The 
point is that the man who marries Margaret 
has got to be capable of work. There's only 
one way of telling the difference between a 
man and a jack-rabbit till you get to know 
them, and that is that the man will work." 
Mr. Bivatt took another tabloid. " You 
remember Jacob ? " he said. 

" Jacob ? I've met a man called Jacob at 
the National Sporting Club." 

" I mean the one in the Bible, the one who 
worked seven years for the girl, got the wrong 
one, and started in right away to do another 
seven years. He wasn't a jack-rabbit ! " 

Digitized by CjOOgle 

" Wonderful Johnny," agreed Lord Freddie, 

" They managed things mighty sensibly in 
those days. You didn't catch them getting 
stung by any pop-eyed Datchets. It's given 
me an idea, talking of Jacob. That's the 
sort of man I want for Margaret. See ? I 
don't ask him to wait seven years, let alone 
fourteen. But I will have him show that 
there's something in him. Now, I'll make a 
proposition to you. You go and hunt for a 
job and get it, and hold it long enough to 
make five hundred dollars, and you can 
marry Margaret as soon as you like after- 
wards. But you've got to make it by work. 
No going out and winning it at poker, or 
putting your month's allowance on something 
to win and for a place. See ? " 

" It seems to me," said Freddie, " that you 
bar every avenue of legitimate enterprise. 
But I shall romp home all the same. You 
mean earn five hundred, not save it ? " 

" Earn will do. But let's get this fixed 
right. When I say earn, I mean earn. I 
don't mean sit up and beg and have it fall 
into your mouth. Manual work or brain 
work it's got to be — one of the two. I shall 
check your statement pretty sharply. And 
you'll drop your title while you're at it. 
You've got to get this job on your merits, if 
you have any. Is that plain ? " 
" Offensively." 

" You mean to try it ? You won't like it." 
" I don't suppose Jacob liked it — what ? " 
" I suppose not. Good morning." 
And Mr. Bivatt, swallowing another tabloid, 
turned his attention once more to harrying 
the widow and the orphan. 

Freddie, when he set out on his pilgrimage, 
had his eyes open for something soft and easy. 
But there are no really easy jobs. Even the 
man who fastened a snake into a length of 
hose-pipe with a washer, and stood in the 
background working a police-rattle — the 
whole outfit being presented to the public in a 
dim light as the largest rattlesnake in captivity 
— had to run for his life when the washer 
worked loose and the snake escaped. 

It amazed Freddie, the difficulty of getting 
work. Work had always seemed to him so 
peculiarly unpleasant that he had supposed 
that the supply must exceed the demand. 
The contrary appeared to be the case. 

Eventually, after wearing a groove in the 
pavements, he found himself, through a com- 
bination of lucky chances, in charge of the 
news-stand at a large hotel. Twelve dollars 
a week was the stipends Working it out on a 




slip of paper, he perceived that his ordea! 
was to be a mere few months' canter of 
unexacting work in quite comfortable sur- 
roundings. Datchet himself could have done 
it on his butter-coloured head. 

There is always a catch in these pood things, 
For four days ail went well. He found his 
duties pleasant. But on the fifth day came 
reaction. From the moment he began work 
a feeling of utter loathing for this particular 
form of money-making enveloped him as in 
a cloud* The customers irritated him. He 
was hopelessly bored. 

Freddie's gaze circled round the lobby and 
eventual I v rested on the object before him. 

" Stamp [ " 

Freddie inspected him with frigid scorn. 

" Why should I ? " he a*ked, coldly. 

The hotel in which Freddie had found 
employment was a sporting hotel in the heart 
of that section of New York known as the 
Tenderloin, Its patrons were mainly racing 
men* gamblers, and commercial travellers 
men of action rather than words. This 
particular patron was essentially the man of 
action. Freddie's question offending him. he 


The end was in sight. It came early on 
the afternoon of the sixth day, through the 
medium of one of the regular customers, a 
man who, even in happier moments, had 
always got on his nerves. He was a man 
with a rasping voice and a peremptory 
manner, who demanded a daily paper or a 
penny stamp with the air of one cursing an 

Freddie had fallen into gloomy meditation, 
business being slack at the time, w r hen this 
man appeared before him and shouted : — 

" Stamp ! " 

Freddie started, but made no reply. 

" Stamp ! " 

Digitized by GoOgle 

hit him in the eve, and a minute later Freddie, 
breathing slaughter, had vaulted the barrier 
of newspapers, and the battle was raging all 
over the lobby, to the huge contentment of a 
mixed assortment of patrons, bell-boys, bar- 
keepers, pages, and waiters from the adjoin- 
ing cafi* Six minutes later, when Freddie, 
panting a little and blinking to ease the pain 
of his injured eye, was waiting for his oppo- 
nent to rise, which he did not do, the manager 
entered the arena. The manager was a man 
with sporting blood and a sense of the pro- 
prieties, The former had kept him an inte- 
rested spectator during the late proceedings ; 
the latter- -now made him step forward, tap 




Freddie on the shoulder, and inform him that 
his connection with the hotel was at an end. 

Freddie went out into the world with 
twelve dollars and a black eye. As he 
passed through the swing door a slight cheer 
was raised in his honour by the grateful 

I would enlarge on Freddie's emotions at 
losing his situation, were it not for the fact 
that two days later he found another. There 
was a bell-boy at his late hotel to whom he had 
endeared himself by allowing him to read the 
baseball news free of charge ; a red-headed, 
world-weary, prematurely aged boy, to whom 
New York was an open book. He met 
Freddie in the street. 

" Halloa, you ! " he said. " I been huntin' 
after you. Lookin' fer a job ? My cousin 
runs a cafi on Fourteenth Street. He's 
wantin* a new waiter. I seen the card in the 
window yesterday. You try there and say 
I sent you. It's a tough joint, though." 

" After what happened the day before 
yesterday, it seems to me that the tougher 
the joint the more likely I am to hold my job. 
I seem to lack polish." 

" The East Side Delmonico's is the name." 

" It sounds too refined for me." 

" It may sound that way," said the bell- 
boy, " but it ain't." 

Nor was it. The East Side Delmonico's 
proved to be a dingy though sizable estab- 
lishment at a spot where Fourteenth Street 
wore a more than usually tough and battered 
look. Fourteenth Street has that air of 
raffish melancholy which always marks a 
district visited for awhile and then deserted 
by fashion. 

It appeared that the bell-boy, who had been 
deeply impressed by Freddie's handling of the 
irritable news-stand customer, had given him 
an excellent character in advance ; and he 
found, on arrival, that he was no stranger to 
Mr. " Blinky " Anderson, the proprietor. 
The bell-boy's cousin welcomed him, if not 
with open arms, with quite marked satis- 
faction. He examined the injured eye, 
stamped it with the seal of his approval as 
" some lamp," and, having informed him that 
his weekly envelope would contain five dollars 
and that his food was presented free by the 
management, requested him to slip out of his 
coat, grab an apron, and get busy. 

Freddie was a young man who took life as 
it came. He was a sociable being, and could 
be happy anywhere so long as he was not bored. 
The solitude of the news-stand had bored him, 
but at the East Side Delmonico's life was too 
full of movement to permit of ennui. He 

by Google 

soon perceived that there was more in this 
curious establishment than met the eye, and 
this by design rather than accident. The 
fact was that " Blinky's," as its patrons 
tersely styled Anderson's Parisian Cafe and 
Restaurant, the East Side Delmonico's, 
offered attractions to the cognoscenti other 
than the mere restoration of the inner man 
with meat and drink. On the first floor, for 
instance, provided that you could convince 
the management of the excellence of your 
motives, you could " buck the tiger " — a feat 
which sounds perilous but is not, except to 
the purse. On the floor above, again, if you 
were that kind of idiot, you might play 
roulette. And in the basement, in a large, 
cellar-like room, lit with countless electric 
lights, boxing contests were held on Saturday 
nights before audiences financially, if not 
morally, select. 

In fact, the East Side Delmonico's was 
nothing more nor less than a den of iniquity. 
But nobody could call it dull, and Freddie 
revelled in his duties. He booked orders, 
served drinks, smashed plates, bullied the 
cook, chaffed the customers when they were 
merry, seized them by the neck and ran them 
into the street when they were too merry, 
and in every other way comported himself 
like one who has at last found his true 
vocation. And time rolled on. 

We will leave time rolling for the moment 
and return to Mr. Bivatt, raising the curtain 
at the beginning of his tete-a-tete dinner with 
his fellow-plutocrat, T. Mortimer Dunlop. 
T. Mortimer was the other sort of millionaire. 
You could have told he was a millionaire just 
by looking at him. He bulged. Wherever 
a man can bulge, there did T. Mortimer 
Dunlop bulge. His head was balda his face 
purple, his hands red. He was accustomed 
to refer to himself somewhat frequently as a 
" dead game sport." He wheezed when he 

I raise the curtain on Mr. Bivatt at the 
beginning of dinner because it was at the 
beginning of dinner that he allowed Mr. 
Dunlop to persuade him to drink a Dawn of 
Hope cocktail — so called because it cheers 
you up. It cheered Mr. Bivatt up. 

Mr. Bivatt needed cheering up. That very 
afternoon his only son Twombley had struck 
him for a thousand dollars to pay a poker 
debt. A thousand dollars is not a large sum 
to a man of Mr. Bivatt's wealth, but it is 
your really rich man who unbelts least 
joyously. Together with the cheque Twom- 
bley had received a parental lecture. He 

Original from 



had appeared to be impressed by it ; but it 
was the doubt as to its perfect efficacy which 
was depressing Mr. Bivatt. There was no 
doubt that Twombley was a trial. It was 
only the awe with which he regarded his 
father that kept him within bounds. Mr. 
Bivatt sighed and took a pepsine tabloid. 

It was at this point that T. Mortimer 
Dunlop, summoning the waiter, ordered two 
Dawn of Hope cocktails. 

" Nonsense ! " he wheezed, in response to 
Mr. Bivatt's protest. " Be a sport ! Ym a 
dead game sport. Hurry up, waiter. Two 
Dawn of Hope." 

Mr. Bivatt weakly surrendered. He was 
there entirely to please Mr. Dunlop, for there 
was a big deal in the air, to which Mr. Dunlop's 
co-operation was essential. This was no time 
to think about one's digestion or the habits 
of a lifetime. If, to conciliate invaluable Mr. 
Dunlop, it was necessary to be a dead game 
sport and drink a cocktail, then a dead game 
sport he would be. He took the curious 
substance from the waiter and pecked at it 
like a nervous bird. He blinked, and pecked 
again — less nervously this time. 

You, gentle reader, who simply wallow in 
alcoholic stimulants at every meal, will find 
it hard to understand the wave of emotion 
which surged through Mr. Bivatt's soul as 
he reached the half-way point in the magic 
glass. But Mr. Bivatt for thirty years had 
confined his potions to hot water, and the 
effect on him was remarkable. He no longer 
felt depressed. Hope, so to speak, had 
dawned with a jerk. Life was a thing of 
wonderful joy and infinite possibilities. 

We therefore find him, at the end of 
dinner, leaning across the table, thumping it 
with clenched fist, and addressing Mr. Dunlop 
through the smoke of the latter's cigar 
thus : — 

" Dunlop, old man, how would it be to go 
and see a show ? I'm ready for anything, 
old man, Dunlop. I'm a dead game sport, 
Dunlop, old fellow ! That's what I am." - 

One thing leads to another. The curtain 
falls on Mr. Bivatt smoking a Turkish cigarette 
in a manner that can only be described as 
absolutely reckless. 

These things, I should mention, happened 
on a Saturday night. About an hour after 
Mr. Bivatt had lit his cigarette Freddie, in the 
cafi at the East Side Delmonico's, was aware 
of a thick-set, short-haired, tough-looking 
young man settling himself at one of the tables 
and hammering a glass with the blade of his 
knife. In the other hand he waved the bill 

of fare. He was also shouting, " Hey ! " 
Taking him for all in all, Freddie set him down 
as a hungry young man. He moved towards 
him to minister to his needs. 

" Well, cully," he said, affably, " and what 
will you wrap yourself around ? " 

You were supposed to unbend and be 
chummy with the customers if you were a 
waiter at " Blinky's." The customers expected 
it. If you called a patron of the East Side 
Delmonico's " sir," he scented sarcasm, and 
was apt to throw things. 

The young man had a grievance. 

" Say, can you beat it ? Me signed up to 
fight a guy here at a hundred and thirty-three, 
ring-side, and starving meself for weeks to 
make the weight. Say, I ain't had a square 
meal since Ponto was a pup — and, gee ! along 
comes word that he's sprained a foot and will 
we kindly not expect him. And all I get 
is the forfeit money." 

He snorted., 

" Forfeit money ! Keep it ! It ain't but 
a hundred plunks, and the loser's end was three 
hundred. And there wouldn't have been any 
loser's end in mine at that. Why, say, I'd 
have licked that guy with me eyes shut." 

He kicked the table-leg morosely. 

" Your story moves me much," said Freddie. 
" And now, what shall we shoot into you ? " 

" You attending to this table ? " 
1 am. 

The young man scanned the bill of fare. 

" Noodle - soup - bit - o' - weakfish - fried - 
chicken - Southern - style - corn - on - the - cob- 
bit - o' - steak - fried - potatoes - four - fried- 
eggs - done - on - both - sides - apple - dumpling- 
with-hard-sauce-and-a-cup-custard," he ob- 
served, rapidly. " That'll do to start with* 
And, say, bring all the lager-beer you can 
find. I've forgotten what it tastes like." 

" That's right," said Freddie, sympathetic- 
ally; " keep your strength up." 

" I'll try," said the thick-set young man, 
" Get a move on." 

There was no doubt about the pugilisms 
appetite. It gave Freddie quite a thrill of 
altruistic pleasure to watch him eat. He felt 
like a philanthropist entertaining e starving 
beggar. He fetched and carried assiduously 
for the diner, and when at length the latter 
called for coffee and a cigar and sank back in 
his chair with a happy sigh, he nearly cheered. 

On his way to the kitchen he encountered 
his employer, Mr. " Blinky " Anderson, 
looking depressed. Freddie gathered the 
reason for his gloom. He liked " Blinky," 
and thought respectful condolence would not 
be out of piace. 




" Sorry to hear the news, sir," 
" Hey ? " said Mr. Anderson , moodily* 
" I hear the main event has fallen through." 
M Who told you ? " 

t£ I have been waiting on one of the fighters 

Mr. Anderson nodded. 
il That would be the Tennessee Bear-Cat. " 
" Very possibly. He had that appearance. ' ' 
Like the Bear-Cat, Mr, Anderson was ren- 
dered communicative by grief. Freddie had 
a sympathetic manner, and many men had 
confided in him. 

" It was One-Round Smith who backed 

and he's worth all sorts o* money. And now 
there won't be no fight. Wouldn't that jar 
you ? " 

" Can't you find a substitute ? " 

" Substitute ! This ain't a preliminary 
between two dubs. It was the real thing for 
big money. And all the sports in town come 
to watch it. Substitute ! Ain't you ever 
heard of the Bear-Cat ? He's a wild Indian. 
Who's going to offer to step up and swap 
punches with a terror like him ? " 

" I am," said Freddie. 

Mr. Anderson stared at him with open 

I'M a dkai> game sport, duni.op, old fellow ! that's WHAT I AM." 

down. Says he's hurt his foot. Huh ! " 
Mr. Anderson grunted satirically, but pathos 
succeeded satire again almost at once. M I 
ain't told them about it yet," he went on, 
jerking his head in the direction of the 
invisible audience. " The preliminaries have 
just started, and what those guys will say 
when they find there ain't going to be a main 
event I don't know. I guess they 11 want to 
lynch somebody. I ought to tell 'em right 
away 3 but I can't seem to sorter brace myself 
to it. It's the best audience, too, we've ever 
had- All the sports in town are there. Rich 
guys, too — none of your cheap skates. I 
just seen old man Dunlop blow in with a pal, 

Vol ftfe— X, 

Digitized by \jOOQIc 

" You ! n 

11 Me/' 

" You'll fight the Tennessee Bear-Cat ? M 

" I'd fight Jack Johnson if he'd just finished 
the meal that fellow has been having,' ? said 
Freddie, simply. 

Mr, Anderson was not a swift thinker. 
He stood, blinking, and allowed the idea to 
soak through. It penetrated slowly, like 
water through a ceiling. 

" He'd eat you/* he said, at last, 

" Well, I'm the only thing in this place he 
hasn't eaten. Why stint him ? " 

il But, say, have you done any fighting ? " 

" As an amateur, a good deal." 
Original from 




" Amateur ! Say, can you see them sports 
down there standing a main event between 
the Tennessee Bear-Cat and an amateur ? " 

" Why tell them ? Say I'm the heavy- 
light-weight champion of England." 

" What's a heavy-light-weight ? " 

" It's a new class, in between the lights 
and the welters." 

By this time the idea had fairly worked 
its way through into Mr. Anderson's mind, 
and its merits were beginning to appeal to 
him. It was certain that, if Freddie were not 
allowed to fill the gap, there would be no 
main event that night. And in the peculiar 
circumstances it was just possible that he 
might do well enough to satisfy the audience. 
The cloud passed from Mr. Anderson's face, 
for all the world as if he had taken a Dawn of 
Hope cocktail. 

" Why, say," he said, " there's something 
in this." 

" You bet there is," said Freddie. " There's 
the loser's end, three hundred of the best." 

Mr. Anderson clapped him on the shoulder. 

" And another hundred from me if you last 
five rounds," he said. " I guess five'fl satisfy 
them, if you make them fast ones. I'll go 
and tell the Bear-Cat." 

" And I'll go and get him his coffee and the 
strongest cigar you keep. Every little helps." 

Freddie entered the ring in a costume 
borrowed from one of the fighters in the pre- 
liminaries, and, seating himself in his cornier, 
had his first sight of Mr. " Blinky " Anderson's 
celebrated basement. Most of the light in the 
place was concentrated over the roped plat- 
form of the ring, and all he got was a vague 
impression of space. There seemed to be a 
great many people present. The white 
shirt-fronts reminded him of the National 
Sporting Club. 

His eye was caught by a face in the first 
row of ring-side seats. It seemed familiar. 
Where had he seen it before ? And then he 
recognized Mr. Bivatt — a transformed Mr. 
Bivatt, happier-looking, excited, altogether 
more human. Their eyes met, but there was 
no recognition in the millionaire's. Freddie 
had shaved his moustache as a preliminary 
to the life of toil, and Mr. Bivatt, beaming 
happily up at him from beside that dead 
game sport, T. Mortimer Dunlop, had no 
recollection of ever having seen him before. 

Freddie's attention was diverted from 
audience to ring by the arrival of the Tennessee 
Bear-Cat. There was a subdued murmur of 
applause — applause had to be merely mur- 
mured on these occasions — and for one 

moment, as he looked at him, Freddie re- 
gretted the contract he had undertaken. 
What Mr. Anderson had said about wild 
Indians came home to him. Certainly the 
Bear-Cat looked one. He was an extra- 
ordinarily-muscled young man. Freddie was 
mainly muscle himself, but the Bear-Cat 
appeared to be a kind of freak. Lumps and 
cords protruded from him in all directions. 
His face wore a look of placid content, and 
he had a general air of happy repletion, a 
fate-cannot-touch-me-I-have-dined-to-day ex- 
pression. He was chewing gum. 

A shirt-sleeved gentleman of full habit 
climbed into the ring, puffing slightly. 

" Gents ! Main event. Have an apology 
offer — behalf of the management. Was to 
have been ten-round between Sam Proctor, 
better known as th' Tennessee Bear-Cat, and 
One-Round Smith, at one-thirty-three ring- 
side. But — seems to have been a — naccident. 
One-Round havin' sustained severe injury 
to foot. Rend'rin' it — impossible — appear 
t'night before you. Deeply regret unavoid'ble 

The portly man's breath was going fast, 
but he still had sufficient for a brilliant flight 
of fancy, a vast improvement on Freddie's 
humble effort. 

" Have honour, however, present t'you 
Jimmy Smith, brother of One-Round — 
stranger to this city — but — well known on 
Pacific Coast — where — winner of forty-seven 
battles. Claimant to welter- Weight belt. 
Gents, Jimmy Smith, the Santa Barbara 
Whirlwind ! " 

Freddie bowed. The speech, for some 
mysterious reason probably explainable by 
Christian Science, had had quite a tonic 
effect on him. The mere thought of those 
forty-seven victories gave him heart. After 
all, who was this Tennessee Bear-Cat ? A 
mere walking repository of noodle soup, 
weakfish, fried chicken, eggs, corn, apple- 
dumplings, lager-beer, and cup-custards. A 
perambulating bill of fare. That was what 
he was. And, anyway,, he was probably 
muscle-bound, and would be as slow as a top. 

The introducer, however, presented him in 
another aspect. He had got his second wind 
now, and used it. 

" Gents ! The Tennessee Bear-Cat ! You 
all know Sam. The toughest, huskiest, 
wickedest little old slugger that ever came 
down the pike. The boy who's cleaned up all 
the light-weights around these parts, and is 
in a dead straight line — for — the champion- 
ship of the world." 

He waved his hand dramatically. The 




Bcar-Cat ? overwhelmed by these tributes, 
shifted his chewing-gum to the other cheek, 
and simpered coyly, as who should say, 
" Stop your nonsense, Archibald ! " And the 
gong clanged. 

Freddie started the fight with the advantage 
that his plan of campaign was perfectly clear 
in his mind. Rapid attack was his policy. 
When a stout gentleman in shirt-sleeves has 
been exhausting his scanty stock of breath 
calling you a whirlwind, decency forbids that 
you should behave like a zephyr. He shook 
hands, and, on the principle of beginning as 
you mean to go on, proceeded without delay 
to poke his left earnestly into the middle of 

round that he received a shock. Till then the 
curious ease with which he had reached his 
opponents head had caused him to con- 
centrate on it. It now occurred to him that 
by omitting to attack the body he was, as 
it were, wasting the gifts of Providence. 
Consequently, having worked his man into 
an angle of the ropes with his back against 
a post, he feinted with his left, drew a blow, 
and then, ducking quickly, put all his w r eight 
into a low, straight right. 

The effect was remarkable. The Bear-Cat 
uttered a startled grunt ; a look came into 
his face of mingled pain and reproach t as if 
his faith in human nature had been shaken. 



the Bear-Cat's face. He then brought his 
right round with a thud on to what the 
latter probably stitl called his car — a strange, 
shapeless growth rather like a leather cauli- 
flower — and sprang back. The Bear-Cat 
shifted hLs gum and smiled gratefully. 

A heavy swing on the part of the Bear- Cat 
was the next event of note. Freddie avoided 
it with ease and slipped in a crisp left. As 
he had expected , his opponent was too slow 
to be dangerous. Dangerous ! He was not 
even making the thing interesting, thought 
Freddie, as he side-stepped another swing 
and brought his right up to the chin. He 
went to his corner at the end of the round, 
glowing with satisfaction, Thi> u;h ea^y. 

It wa.s towards the middle of the second 

Digitized by GOOQIC 

and he fell into a clinch. And as Freddie 
vainly struggled to free himself a voice 
murmured in his ear: — 

" Say, cut that out ! " 

The stout referee prised them apart, 
Freddie darted forward, missed with his left, 
and the Bear- Cat clinched again — more, it 
appeared, in order to resume the interrupted 
conversation than from motives of safety. 

4£ Leave me stummick be, you rummy/' he 
hissed, rapidly. " Ain't you got no tact ? 
' Blinky ' promised me fifty if I'd let you stay 
three rounds, but one more like that, and ill 
forget meself and knock you through the 

Only when he reached his corner did the 

full meaning of the words strike Freddie, 
Tjrigmal from 




All the glow of victory left him. It was a 
put-up job ! " JJlinky," to ensure his patrons 
something resembling a fight, had induced 
the Bear-Cat to fight false during the first 
three rounds. 

The shock of it utterly disheartened him. 
So that was why he had been making such a 
showing ! That was why his jabs and hooks 
had got home with such clockwork precision ! 
Probably his opponent had been laughing at 
him all the time. The thought stung him. 
He had never been remarkable for an even 
temper, and now a cold fury seized him. He 
would show them, by George ! 

The third round was the most spectacular 
of the fight. Even the regular patrons of 
" Blinky's " Saturday night exhibitions threw 
aside their prudence and bellowed approval. 
Smiling wanly and clinching often, the Bear- 
Cat fixed his mind on his fifty dollars to buoy 
himself up, while Freddie, with a nasty 
gleam in his eyes, behaved every moment 
more like a Santa Barbara Whirlwind might 
reasonably be expected to behave. Seldom 
had the Bear-Cat heard sweeter music than 
the note of the gong terminating the round. 
He moved slowly to his corner, and handed 
his chewing-gum to his second to hold for 
him. It was strictly business now. He 
thought hard thoughts as he lay back in his 

In the other corner Freddie also was think- 
ing. The exhilarating exercise of the last 
round had soothed him and cleared his brain ; 
and he, too, as he left his corner for the fourth 
session, was resolved to attend strictly to 
business. And his business was to stay five 
rounds and earn that hundred dollars. 

Connoisseurs in the ring-seats, who had 
been telling their friends during the previous 
interval that Freddie had " got him going," 
changed their minds and gave it as their 
opinion that he had " blown up." They were 
wrong. He was fighting solely on the defen- 
sive now from policy, not from fatigue. 

The Bear-Cat came on with a rush, head 
down, swinging with left and right. The 
change from his former attitude was remark- 
able, and Freddie, if he had not been prepared 
for it, might have been destroyed offhand. 
There was no standing up against such an 
onslaught. He covered up and ducked and 
slipped and side-stepped, and slipped again, 
and, when the gong sounded, he was still 

Freddie came up for the fifth round brim- 
■ ming over with determination. He meant to 
do or die. Before the end of the first half- 
minute it was borne in upon him that he was 

Digitized by dOOglC 

far more likely to die than do. He was a 
good amateur boxer. He had been well 
taught, and he knew all the recognized stops 
for the recognized blows. But the Bear-Cat 
had either invented a number of blows not 
in the regular curriculum, or else it was his 
manner of delivering them that gave that 
impression. Reason told Freddie that his 
opponent was not swinging left and right 
simultaneously, but the hard fact remained 
that, just as he guarded one blow, another 
came from the opposite point of the compass 
and took him squarely on the side of the head. 
He had a disagreeable sensation as if an 
automobile had run into him, and then he was 
on the floor, with the stout referee sawing 
the air above him. 

The thought of a hundred dollars is a 
reviving agent that makes oxygen look like 
a sleeping-draught. No sooner had it re- 
turned to his mind than his head cleared 
and he rose to his feet, as full of fight as ever. 
He perceived the Bear-Cat slithering towards 
him, and leaped to one side like a Russian 
dancer. The Bear-Cat collided with the 
ropes and grunted discontentedly. 

Probably, if Freddie had had a sizable 
plot of ground, such as Hyde Park or Dart- 
moor, to manoeuvre in, he might have avoided 
his opponent for some considerable time. 
The ring being only twenty feet square, he 
was hampered. A few more wild leaps, 
interspersed with one or two harmless left 
jabs, and he found himself penned up in a 
corner, with the Bear-Cat, smiling pleasantly 
again now, making hypnotic passes before 
his eyes. 

The Bear-Cat was not one of your reticent 
fighters. He was candour itself. 

" Here it comes, kid ! " he remarked, 
affably, and " it " came. Freddie's world 
suddenly resolved itself into a confused 
jumble of pirouetting stars, chairs, shirt- 
fronts, and electric lights, and he fell forward 
in a boneless heap. There was a noise of 
rushing waters in his ears, and, mingled with 
it, the sound of voices. Some person or 
persons, he felt dimly, seemed to be making 
a good deal of an uproar. His brain was 
clouded, but the fighting instinct still worked 
within him ; and, almost unconsciously, he 
groped for the lower rope, found it, and pulled 
himself to his feet. And then the lights 
went out. 

How long it was before he realized that the 
lights actually had gone out, and that the 
abrupt darkness was not due to a repetition 
of " it," he never knew. But it must have 
been some length of time, for when the 




room became suddenly light again his head 
was clear and, except for a conviction that 
his neck was broken, he felt tolerably well. 

His eyes having grown accustomed to the 
light, he saw with astonishment that remark- 
able changes had taken place in the room. 
With the exception of some half-dozen per- 
sons, the audience had disappeared entirely, 
and each of those who remained was in the 
grasp of a massive policeman. Two more 
intelligent officers were beckoning to him 
to come down from the platform. 

The New York police force is subject to 
periodical attacks of sensitiveness with regard 
to the purity of the city. In between these 
spasms a certain lethargy seems to grip it, but 
when it does act its energy is wonderful. 
The East Side Delmonico's had been raided. 

It was obvious that the purity of the city 
demanded that Freddie should appear in 
court in a less exiguous costume than his 
present one. The two policemen accom- 
panied him to the dressing-room. 

On a chair in one corner sat the Tennessee 
Bear-Cat, lacing his shoes. On a chair in 
another corner sat Mr. Franklyn Bivatt, 
holding his head in his hands. 

Fate, Mr. Bivatt considered, had not treated 
him well. Nor, he added mentally, had T. 
Mortimer Dunlop. For directly the person, 
to be found in every gathering, who myste- 
riously gets to know things in advance of his 
fellows had given the alarm, T. Mortimer, who 
knew every inch of " Blinky's " basement 
and, like other dead game sports who fre- 
quented it, had his exits and his entrances — 
particularly his exits — had skimmed away 
like a corpulent snipe and vanished, leaving 
Mr. Bivatt to look after himself. As Mr. 
Bivatt had failed to look after himself, the 
constabulary were looking after him. 

" Who's the squirt ? " asked the first 
policeman, indicating Mr. Bivatt. 

" I don't know," said the second. " I 
caught him trying to hook it, and held him. 
Keep an eye on him. I think it's Boston 
Willie, the safe-blower. Keep these three 
here till I get back. I'm off upstairs." 

The door closed behind them. Presently 
it creaked and was still. The remaining 
policeman was leaning against it. 

The Tennessee Bear-Cat nodded amiably 
at Freddie. 

" Feeling better, kid ? Why didn't you 
duck ? I told you it was coming, didn't I ? " 

Mr. Bivatt groaned hollowly. Life was 
very grey. He was in the hands of the police, 
and he had indigestion and no pepsine tabloids. 

" Say, it ain't so bad as all that," said the 

Bear-Cat. " Not if you've got any sugar, it 

" My doctor expressly forbid^ me sugar," 
replied Mr. Bivatt. 

The Bear-Cat gave a peculiar jerk of his 
head, indicative of the intelligent man's 
contempt for the slower-witted. 

" Not that sort of sugar, you rummy. 
Gee ! Do you think this is a tea-party ? 
Dough, you mutt." 

" Do you mean money, by any chance ? " 
asked Freddie. 

The Bear-Cat said that he did mean money. 
He went further. Mr. Bivatt appearing to 
be in a sort of trance, he put a hand in his 
pocket and extracted a pocket-book. 

" I guess these'll do," he said, removing a 
couple of bills. 

He rapped on the door. 

" Hey, Mike ! " 

" Quit that," answered a gruff voice 

" I want to speak to you. Got something 
to say." 

The door opened. 

" Well ? " 

" Say, Mike, you've got a kind face. Going 
to let us go, ain't you ? " 

The policeman eyed the Bear-Cat stolidly. 
The Bear-Cat's answering glance was more 

" See what the fairies have brought, Mike." 

The policeman's gaze shifted to the bills. 

11 Say," he said, severely, as he held out 
his hand, " you don't reckon I'd take a bribe, 
I hope ? " 

" Certainly not," said the Bear-Cat, indig- 

There was a musical rustling. 

" Don't mind if we say good night now, 
do you ? " said the Bear-Cat. " They'll be 
getting anxious about us at home." 

The policeman with the kind face met his 
colleague in the basement. 

" Say, you know those guys in the dressing- 
room," he said. 

" Uh-huh," said the colleague. 

" They overpowered me and got away." 

" Halves," said the colleague. 

Having lost the Bear-Cat — no difficult task, 
for he dived into the first saloon — Mr. Bivatt 
and Freddie turned their steps towards 
Broadway. A certain dignity which had 
been lacking in the dressing-room had crept 
back into Mr. Bivatt's manner. 

" Go away," he said. " 1 will not have 
you fallowing m«giha 



"I am not following you," said Freddie, 
" We are walking arm in arm.'* 

Mr, Bivatt wrenched himself free. M Go 
away, or I will call a police— er— go away ! " 

" Have you forgotten me ? I was afraid 
you had. I won't keep you long. 1 only 
wanted to tell you that I had nearly made that 
five hundred dollars*" 

Mr. Bivatt started and glared at Freddie 
in the light of a shop-window. He gurgled 

11 I haven't added it all up yet* I have 
been too busy making it* Let me see. 

alluded to responsible, respectable work. I 
did not include low prize-fighting and " 

M You said manual w r ork or brain work. 
Wasn't mine about as manual as you could 
get ? » 

" I have nothing further to say," 

Freddie sighed, 

" Oh j well," he said, " I suppose I shall have 
to start all over again, I wish you had let 
me know sooner, I shall try brain work this 
time, I shall write my experiences and try 
and sell them to a paper. What happened 
to-night ought to please some editor. The 




Twelve dollars from the hotel. Two weeks 
as a waiter at five a week. Twenty- two, 
Tips, about another dollar. Three hundred 
for the loser's end — I can't claim a draw, as 
I was practically out. And - Blinky' Anderson 
promised me another hundred if I stayed 
five rounds. Well, I was on my feet when 
the police broke up the show, but maybe, 
after what has happened, he won't pay up. 
Anyway, I've got three hundred and twenty- 
three M 

" Will you kindly stop this foolery and 
allow me to speak ? " said Mr. Bivatt. 
" When I made our agreement 1 naturally 

Di oog 

way you got us out of that dressing-room ! 
It was the smartest thing I ever saw. There 
ought to be money in that. Well, good 
night. May I come and report later ? " 

He turned away, but stopped as he heard 
an odd choking sound behind him. 

" Is anything the matter ? " 

Mr. Bivatt clutched him with one hand and 
patted his arm affectionately with the other. 

M Don't — er — don't go away, my boy/' he 
said. " Come with me to the drug-store 
while I get some pepsine tabloids, and then 
we'll go home and talk it over. I think we 
ma)' be able to arrange something, after all/' 



An unusual 

of Annoyances 

At pleasure 
do Irfet out 
■lof *hfe?- 

Tke Case of tke Plain M 


S«ond Article : " THE TASTE FOR PLEASURE." 


Illustrated by Alfred Leete. 


XE evening— it is bound to 
happen in the evening when 
It does happen — the plain 
man whose case I endeavoured 
to analyst' in a previous paper 
will suddenly explode. The 
smouldering volcano within 
that placid and wise exterior will burst forth, 
and the surrounding country will be covered 
with the hot lava of his immense hidden 
grievance. The business day has perhaps been 
marked by an unusual succession of annoy- 
ances, exasperations, disappointments — but 
he has met them with fine philosophic calm ; 
fatigue has overtaken him— but it has not 
overcome him ; throughout the long ordeal 
at the office he has remained master of himself } 
a wondrous example to the young and the 
foolish. And then some entirely unimportant 
occurrence— say, an invitation to a golf four- 
some which his duties forbid him to accept 
— a trifle, a nothing, comes along and 
brings about the explosion, in a fashion 
excessively disconcerting to the onlooker, 
and he exclaims, acidly, savagely, with a 
profound pessimism : — 

" What pleasure do / get out of life ? w 
And in that single abrupt question (to 

Copyright, 1912, 

Digitized by LiOOgFC 

which there is only one answer) he lays bare 
the central flaw of his existence. 

The onlooker will probably be his wife, and 
the tone employed will probably imply that 
she is somehow mysteriously to blame for 
the fact that his earthly days are not one 
unbroken series of joyous diversions. He has 
no pose to keep up with his wife. And, 
moreover, if he really loves her he will find a 
certain curious satisfaction in hurting her 
now and then, in being wilfully unjust to her, 
as he would never hurt or be unjust to a 
mere friend. (Herein is one of the mysterious 
differences between love and affection !) 
She is alarmed and secretly aghast, as well 
she may be. He also is secretly aghast. 
For he has confessed a fact which is an 
inconvenient fact ; and Anglo-Saxons have 
such a horror of inconvenient facts that they 
prefer to ignore them even to themselvrs. 
To pretend that things are not what they 
are is regarded by Anglo-Saxons as a proof 
of strength of mind and wholesomeness of 
disposition ; while to admit that things are 
indeed what they are is deemed to be either 
weakness or cynicism* The plain man is 
incapable of being a cynic ; he feels, there- 
fore* that he has been guilty of weakness 
and this, of course, makes him very cross, 

by Arnold B.nneK. Q r jgj na | f rom 




" Can't something be done ? " says his 
wife, meaning, " Can't something be done to 
ameliorate your hard lot ? " 

(Misguided creature ! It was the wrong 
phrase to use. And any phrase would have 
been the wrong phrase. She ought to have 
caressed him, for to a caress there is no 

" You know perfectly well that nothing can 
be done ! " he snaps her up, like a tiger snap- 
ping at the fawn. And his eyes, challenging 
hers, seem to say : " Can I neglect my 
business ? Can I shirk my responsibilities ? 
Where would you be if I shirked them ? 
Where would the children be ? What about 
old age, sickness, death, quarter-day, rates, 
taxes, and your new hat ? I have to provide 
for the rainy day and for the future. I am 
succeeding, moderately ; but let there be no 
mistake — success means that I must sacrifice 
present pleasure. Pleasure is all very well 

for you others, but I " And then he 

will finish aloud, with the air of an offended 
and sarcastic martyr : " Something be done, 
indeed ! " 

She sighs. The domestic scene is over. 

Now, he may be honestly convinced that 
nothing can be done. Let us grant as much. 
But obviously it suits his pride to assume that 
nothing can be done. To admit the contrary 
would be to admit that he was leaving some- 
thing undone, that he had organized his 
existence clumsily, even that he had made a 
fundamental miscalculation in the arrange- 
ment of his career. He has confessed to grave 
dissatisfaction. It behoves him, for the sake 
of his own dignity and reputation, to be quite 
sure that the grave dissatisfaction is unavoid- 
able, inevitable, and that the blame for it 
rests with the scheme of the universe, and not 
with his particular private scheme. His role 
is that of the brave, strong, patient victim of 
an alleged natural law, by reason of which the 
present must ever be sacrificed to the future, 
and he discovers a peculiar miserable delight in 
the role. " Miserable " is the right adjective. 


Nevertheless, in his quality of a wise 
plain man, he would never agree that any 
problem of human conduct, however hard and 
apparently hopeless, could not be solved by 
dint of sagacity and ingenuity — provided it 
was the problem of another person ! He is 
quite fearfully good at solving the problems 
of his friends. Indeed, his friends, recog- 
nizing this, constantly go to him for advice. 
If a friend consulted him and said : — 
" Look here, Fra engaged in an enterprise 

which will absorb all my energies for three 
years. It will enable me in the meantime 
to live and to keep my family, but I shall have 
scarcely a moment's freedom of mind. I may 
have a little leisure, but of what use is leisure 
without freedom of mind ? As for pleasure, 
I shall simply forget what it is. My life will 
be one long struggle. The ultimate profit is 
extremely uncertain. It may be fairly good ; 
on the other hand, it may be nothing at all." 

The plain man, being also blunt, would 
assuredly interrupt : — 

" My dear fellow, what a fool you've been ! " 

Yet this case is in essence the case of the 
wise plain man. The chief difference between 
the two cases is that the wise plain man has 
enslaved himself for about thirty years instead 
of three, with naught but a sheer gambling 
chance of final reward ! Not being one of the 
rare individuals with whom business is a 
passion, but just an average plain man, he 
is labouring daily against the grain, stultify- 
ing daily one part of his nature, on the sup- 
position that later he will be recompensed. 
In other words, he is preparing to live, so 
that at a distant date he may be in a condition 
to live. He has not effected a compromise 
between the present and the future. His 
own complaint — " What pleasure do I get 
out of life ? " — proves that he is completely 
sacrificing the present to the future. And 
how elusive is the future ! Like the horizon, 
it always recedes. If, when he was thirty, 
someone had foretold that at forty-five, with 
a sympathetic wife and family and an 
increasing income, he would be as far off 
happiness as ever, he would have smiled at 
the prophecy. 

The consulting friend, somewhat nettled by 
the plain man's bluntness, might retort : — 

" I may or may not have been a fool. 
That's not the point. The point is that I 
am definitely in the enterprise, and can't get 
out of it. And there's nothing to be done." 

Whereupon the plain man, in an encourag- 
ing, enheartening, reasonable tone, would 
respond : — 

" Don't say that, my dear chap. Of course, 
if you're in it, you're in it. But give me all 
the details. Let's examine the thing. And 
allow me to tell you that no case that looks 
bad is as bad as it looks." 

It is precisely in this spirit that the plain 
man should approach his own case. He 
should say to himself, in that reasonable 
tone which he employs to his friend, and 
which is so impressive : " Let me examine 
the thing." 

And now the ptaini man who is reading this 



(or advice i.^ViJ* 


1 <3o to. Kim „^ The ^1^ 

£'^V*i£_ Mt *° r pleasure 

Irritability which 
others discuss 
behind his b&cK 

and unwillingly fitting the cap will irately 
protest : " Do you suppose I haven't 
examined my own case ? Do you suppose 
I don't understand it ? I understand it 
thoroughly. Who should understand it if I 
don't ? I beg to inform you that I know 
absolutely all about it," 

Still the strong probability is that he has 
not examined it* The strong probability is 
that he has just lain awake of a night and 
felt extremely sorry for himself, and at the 
same time rather proud of his fortitude. 
Which process does not amount to an e xamina- 
tion ; it amounts merely to an indulgence. 
As for knowing absolutely all about it, he has 
not even noticed that the habit of feeling 
sorry for himself and proud of his fortitude 
is slowly growing on him, and tending to 
become his sole form of joy — a morbid habit 
and a sickly joy ! He is sublimely unaware 
uf that increasing irritability which others 
discuss behind his back. lie has no suspicion 
that he is balefully affecting the general 
atmosphere of his home. 

Above all, he does not know that he is 
losing the capacity for pleasure* Indeed, if 
it were suggested that such a change was 
going on in him he would be vexed and dis- 
tressed. He would cry out : " Don't you 
make any mistake ! I j^ould amuse myself 
as well as any man, if only I got the chance ! " 
And yet, how many tens of thousands of 
plain and (as it is called) successful men have 
been staggered to discover, when ambition 
was achie%^ed and the daily yoke thrown off 
and the direct search for immediate happi- 
ness commenced^ that the relish for pleasure 
had faded unnoticed away — proof enough 

by Google 

that they had neither examined nor under* 
stood themselves ! There is no more in^ 
genuous soul, in affairs of supreme personal 
importance, than your wise plain man, whom 
all his friends consult for his sagacity. 

Mind, I am not hereby accusing the plain 
man of total spiritual blindness — any more 
than I would accuse him of total physical 
blindness because he cannot see how he looks 
to others when he walks into a room. For 
nobody can see all round himself, nor know 
absolutely all about his own case ■ and he 
who boasts that he can is no better than a 
fool, despite his wisdom \ he is not even at 
the beginning of any really useful wisdom. 
But I do accuse my plain man of deliberately 
shutting his eyes, from pride and from sloth. 
I do say that he might know a great deal more 
about his case than he actually does know, 
if only he would cease from pitying and prais- 
ing himself in the middle of the night, and 
tackle the business of self-examination in a 
rational, vigorous, and honest fashion — not. 
in the dark, but in the sane sunlight. And 
I do further say that a self-examination thus 
properly conducted might have results which 
would stultify those outrageous remarks of 
his to his wife, 

Few people — in fact, very few people 
indeed — ever realize the priceless value of 
the ancient counsel : " Know thyself." It 
seems so trite, so ordinary. It seems so 
easy to acquire, this knowledge. Does not 
everyone possess it ? Gin it not be got by 
simply sitting down in a chair and yielding 
to a mood ? And yet this knowledge is just 
about as difficult to acquire as a knowledge 

Original from 



of Chinese, Certainly nine hundred and 
ninety-nine people out of a thousand reach 
the age of sixty before getting the rudiments 
of it, The majority of us die in almost 
complete ignorance of it. And none may 
be said to master it in all its exciting 
branches. Why, you can choose any of 
your friends — the wisest of them — and 
instantly tell him something glaringly 
obvious about his own character and actions 
— and be rewarded for your trouble by an 
indignantly sincere denial ! You had noticed 
it ; all his friends had noticed it. But he 
had not noticed it, Far from having noticed 
it j he is convinced that it exists only in your 
malicious imagination. For example, go lo 
a friend .sense of humour is notoriously 
imperfect, and .say gently to him : ' Your 
sense of humour is imperfect, my friend, " and 
see how he will receive the information I So 
much for the rarity of self-knowledge. 

Self-knowledge is difficult because it 
demands intellectual honesty. It demands 
that one shall not blink the facts, that one 
shall not hide one's head in the sand, and that 
one shall not be afraid of anything that one 
may happen to see in looking round* It is 
rare because it demands that one shall always 
be able to distinguish between the man one 
thinks one ought to be and the man one 
actually is. And it is rare because it 
demands impartial detachment and 
a certain quality of fine shame- 
lessness - - the shamelessness 

which confesses openly to oneself and finds 
a legitimate pleasure in confessing. By way 
of compensation for its difficulty, the pursuit 
of self-knowledge happens to be one of the 
most entrancing of all pursuits, as those who 
have seriously practised it are well aware. 
Its interest is inexhaustible and grows 
steadily. Unhappily, the Anglo-Saxon racial 
temperament is inimical to it. The Latins 
like it better. To feel its charm one should 
listen to a highly-cultivated Frenchman 
analysing himself for the benefit of an 
intimate companion. Still, even Anglo* 
Saxons may try it with advantage, 

The branch of self-knowledge which is 
particularly required for the solution of the 
immediate case of the plain 
man now under considera- 
tion is not a very hard 
one, It does not in- 
%'olve the recogni- 
tion of crimes or ^ 
even of grave -Ok*"" 
faults. It is Y^Rg 1 

by Google 

simply the know* 
ledge of what inter* 
ests him and what 
bores him. 
Let him enter upon the first 
section of it with candour. Let 
him be himself, And let him be 
himself without shame. Let him 
ever remember that it is not a 
sin to be bored by what interests 
others, or Lo be interested in 
what bores others. Let him in 
this private inquiry give his 
natural instincts free play, for it 
is precisely the gradual suppression 
of his natural instincts which has 
brought him to his present pass. 
At first he will probably murmur 
in a fatigued voice that he cannot 
think of anything at all that 
interests him. Then let him dig 
down among his buried instincts. 
Let him recall his bright past of 
dreams, before he had become 
a victim imprisoned in the eternal 
groove. Everybody has, or has 
Original from 




had ? a secret desire, a hidden leaning. Let 
him discover what his is ? or was — garden* 
ing, philosophy, reading, travel, billiards, 
raising animals, training animals, killing 
animals, yachting, collecting pictures or 
postage-stamps or autographs or snuff-boxes 
or scalps, astronomy, kite-flying, 
house - furnishing, foreign lan- 
guages, cards, swimming, diary- 
keeping, the stage, politics, car* 
pentry, riding or driving, music, 

and exigent. For the sake of argument I 
will grant that he cannot safely give it an 
instant's less time than he is now giving it. 
But even so his business does not absorb at 
the outside more than seventy hours of the 

staying up late, getting up early, tree-plant- 
ing, tree - felling, town - planning, amateur 
soldiering, statics, entomology, botany, elocu- 
tion, children -fan eying, cigar- fancying, wife- 
fancying, placid domestic evenings, conjuring, 
bacteriology, thought - reading, mechanics, 
geology, sketching, bell-ringing, theosophy, 
his own soul, even golf. . . . 

I mention a few of the ten million directions 
in which his secret desire may point or have 
pointed* I have probably not mentioned the 
right direction. But he can find it* He can 
perhaps find several right directions without 
too much trouble. 

And now he says : — 

<( I suppose you mean me to ■ take up * 
one of these things ? " 

I do, seeing that he has hitherto neglected 
so clear a duty. If he had attended to it 
earlier, and with perseverance, he would not 
be in the humiliating situation of exclaiming 
bitturly that he has no pleasure in life, 

II But, 1 ' he resists, " you know perfectly 
well that I have no time ! " 

To which I am obliged to make reply : — 
" My dear sir, it is not your wife you are 
talking to. Kindly be honest with me." 
I admit that his business is very exhausting 

hundred and ten hours during which he is 
wide awake each week, The rest of the time 
he spends either in performing necessary acts 
in a tedious way or in performing acts which 
are not only tedious to him, but utterly 
unnecessary (for his own hypothesis is 
that he gets no pleasure out of life) — visit ing, 
dinner - giving, cards, newspaper - reading, 
placid domestic evenings, evenings out, bar- 
lounging, sitting aimlessly around, dandifying 
himself, week-ending, theatres, classical con- 
certs, literature, suburban train -travel ling, 
staying up late, being in the swim^ even golf. 
In whatever manner he is whittling away his 
leisure^ it is the wrong manner, for the sole 
reason that it bores him* Moreover, all 
whittling of leisure is a mistake. Leisure, like 
work, should be organized, and it should be 
organized in large pieces. 

The proper course clearly is to substitute 
acts which promise to be interesting for acts 
which have proved themselves to produce 
nothing but tedium, and to carry out the 
change with brains, in a business spirit. And 
the first essential is to recognize that something 
has definitely to go by the board. 

He protests : — 

t( But I do only the usual things — what 
everybody else does ! And then it's time to 
go to bed,' 1 

The case, however, is his case, not every* 
body eise'sOpftjfri a fflftstn should he submit 




Never {fee from 
li'ff the merioce 

Communicating with 

<* Grille 

to everlasting boredom for the mere sake of 

acting like everybody else ? 

He continues in the same strain : — 

11 But you are asking me to change my 

whole life — at my age ! " 

Nothing of the sort ! I am only suggesting 

that he should begin to live. 
And then finally he cries : — 
" It's too drastic, I haven't the pluck ! '' 
Now we are coming to the real point. 


Tnv: machinery of his volition, in all direc- 
tions save one, has been clogged, through 
persistent neglect, due to over-specialization. 
His mind needs to be cleared, and it can be 
cleared— it will clear itself — if regular periods 
of repose are enforced upon it. As things 
are , it practically never gets a holiday from 
business, I do not mean that the plain man 
b always thinking about his business ; but 
I mean that he is always liable to think about 
his business j that his business is always present 
in his mind , even if dormant there, and that 
at every opportunity, if the mind happens to 
be inactive, it sits up querulously and insists 
on attention. The man's mind is indeed 
rather like an unfortunate domestic servant 
who, though not always at work, is never off 
duty, never night or day free from the 
menace of a damnable electric bell ; and it 
is as stale as that servant. His business is 
capable of ringing the bell when the man is 
eating his sou p ? when he is sitting alone with 
his wife on a warm summer evening, and 
especially when he wakes just before dawn to 
pity and praise himself. 

But he defends the position : — 

by Google 

" My business demands much reflection — 
constant watchfulness. " 

Well, in the first place, an enterprise which 
demands watchfulness day and night from 
the same individual is badly organized, and 
should be reorganized. It runs contrary to 
the common sense of Nature. And, in the 
second place, his defence is insincere. He 
does not submit to the eternal preoccupation 
because he thinks he ought, but simply 
because he cannot help it. How often, 
especially just before the dawn, has he not 
longed to be delivered from the perfectly 
futile preoccupation, so that he might go to 
sleep again — and failed to get free ! How 
often, in the midst of some jolly gathering, 
has he not felt secretly desolate because the 
one tyrannic topic would run round and round 
in his mind, just like a clockwork mouse, 
accomplishing no useful end, and making 
impossible any genuine participation in the 
gaiety that environs him ! 

Instead of being necessary to the success 
of his business, this morbid preoccupation 
is positively detrimental to his business* He 
would think much more usefully, more power- 
fully, more creatively, about his business if 
during at least thirteen consecutive hours 
each day he never thought of it at all. 

And there is still a further point in this 
connection. Let him imagine how delightful 
it must be for the people in the home which 
he has made, the loving people whom he 
loves and to whom in theory he is devoting 
his career, to feel continually that he only 
sees them obscurely through the haze emanat- 
ing from his business ! Why — worse !— even 
when he Q^kj^nj| ff$^ his wife, he and she 




might as well be communicating with each 
other across a grille against which a turnkey 
is standing and listening to every word said ! 
Let him imagine how flattering for her ! She 
might be more flattered, at any rate more 
thrilled, if she knew that instead of thinking 
about his business he was thinking about 
another woman. Could he shut the front 
door every afternoon on his business, the 
effect would not only be beneficial upon it 
and upon him, but his wife would smile the 
warm smile of wisdom justified. Like most 
women, she has a firmer grasp of the essence 
of life than the man upon whom she is depen- 
dent. She knows with her heart (what he 
only knows with his brain) that business, 
politics, and " all that sort of thing " are 
secondary to real existence, the mere pre- 
liminaries of it. She would rejoice, in the 
blush of the compliment he was paying her, 
that he had at last begun to comprehend the 
ultimate values ! 

So far as I am aware, there is no patent 
desire for suddenly gaining that control of the 
mind which will enable one to free it from an 
obsession such as the obsession of the plain 
man. The desirable end can, however, be 
achieved by slow degrees, and by an obvious 
method which contains naught of the miracu- 
lous. If the victim of the obsession will 
deliberately try to think of something else, 
or to think of nothing at all — every time he 
catches himself in the act of thinking about 
his business out of hours, he certainly will, 
sooner or later — probably in about a fort- 
night — cure the obsession, or at least get the 
upper hand of it. The treatment demands 
perseverance, but it emphatically does not 
demand an impossibly powerful effort. It is 
an affair of trifling pertinacious touches. 

It is a treatment easier to practise during 
daylight, in company, when distractions 
are plentiful, than in the solitude of the 
night. Triumphantly to battle with an 
obsession at night, when the vitality is low 
and the egoism intensified, is extremely 
difficult. But the small persistent suc- 
cesses of the day will gradually have their 
indirect influence on the night. A great 
deal can also be done by simple resolute 
suggestion. Few persons seem to know — 
what is, nevertheless, a fact — that the most 
effective moment for making resolves is in 
the comatose calm which precedes going to 
sleep. The entire organism is then in a pas- 
sive state, and more permanently receptive, 
of the imprint of volition than at any other 
period of the twenty-four hours. If regularly 
at that moment the man says clearly and 

Digitized by dt 

imperiously to himself, " I will not allow my 
business to preoccupy me at home ; I will 
not allow my business to preoccupy me at 
home ; I will not allow my business to pre- 
occupy me at home/' he will be astonished 
at the results ; which results, by the way, are 
reached by subconscious and therefore unper- 
ceived channels whose workings we can only 
guess at. 

And when the obsession is beaten, destroyed, 
he will find himself not merely fortified with 
the necessary p|uck and initiative for import- 
ing a new interest into his existence. His 
instincts of their own accord will be asking 
for that interest, for they will have been set 


In chposing a distraction — that is to say, 
in choosing a rival to his business — he should 
select some pursuit whose nature differs as 
much as possible from the nature of his 
business, and which will bring into activity 
another side of his character. If his business 
is monotonous, demanding care and solicitude 
rather than irregular intense efforts of the 
brain, then let his distraction be such as will 
make a powerful call upon his brain. But if, 
on the other hand, the course of his business 
runs in crises that string up the brain to its 
tightest strain, then let his distraction be a 
foolish and merry one. Many men fall into 
the error of assuming that their hobbies must 
be as dignified and serious as their vocations, 
though surely the example of the greatest 
philosophers ought to have taught them 
better ! They seem to imagine that they 
should continually be improving themselves, 
in either body or mind. If they take up a 
sport, it is because the sport may improve 
their health. And if the hobby is intellectual 
it must needs be employed to improve their 
brain. The fact is that their conception of 
self-improvement is too narrow. In their 
restricted sense of the phrase, they possibly 
don't need improving ; they possibly are 
already improved to the point of being a 
nuisance to their fellow-creatures ; possibly 
what they need is worsening. In the broad 
and full sense of the phrase self-improvement, 
a course of self-worsening might improve 
them. I have known men — and everybody 
has known them — who would approach 
nearer to perfection if they could only acquire 
a little carelessness, a little absent-mindedness, 
a littie illogicalness, a little irrational and 
infantile gaiety, a little unscrupulousness in 
the matter of the time of day. These con- 
siderations should be weighed before certain 


7 o 


Kftle kobscnf mindedne 

\0 A m\v\^ 


worit vecQ<5n\ze m& 

hobbies are dismissed as being unworthy of a 
plain man's notice. 

Then comes the hour of decision, in which 
the wise plain man should exert all that force 
of will lor which he is famous in his house. 
For this hour may be of supreme importance 
— may be the close of one epoch in his life 
and the beginning of another. The more 
volitional energy he can concentrate in it, the 
more likely is he to succeed in the fine enter- 
prise of his own renaissance. He must 
resolve with as much intensity of will as he 
once put into the resolution which sent him 
to propose marriage to his wife. And, indeed, 
he must be ready to treat his hobby somewhat 
as though it were a woman desired — with 
splendid and uncalculating generosity. He 
must shower money on it, and> what is more, 
he must shower time on it. He must do the 
thin£ properly. A hobby is not a hobby until 
it is glorified, until some real sacrifice has been 
made for it. If he has chosen a hobby that 
is costly, both in money and in time, if it is a 
hobby difficult for a busy and prudent man 
to follow, all the better, If it demands that 
his business shall suffer a little, and that his 
lifelong habits of industry shall seem to be 
jeopardized, again all the better. For, you 
know, despite his timid fears ? his business 
will not suffer , and lifelong habits, even good 
ones, are not easily jeopardized. One of the 
most precious jewels of advice ever offered to 

the plain man was that he should acquire 
industrious habits, and then try to lose them ! 
He will soon find that he cannot lose them, 
but the transient struggles against them will 
tend always to restore the sane balance of 
his nature. 

He must deliberately arrange pleasures for 
himself in connection with his hobby 3 and as 
often as possible. Once a week at least his 
programme should comprise some item of 
relaxation to which he can look forward with 
impatience because he has planned it, and 
because he has compelled seemingly more 
urgent matters to give way to it; and look 
forward to it he must, tasting it in advance, 
enjoying it twice over ! Thus may the appetite 
for pleasure, the ability really to savour it, be 
restored — and incidentally kept in good trim 
for full use when old age arrives and he" enters 
the lotus-land. xYnd with it all, when the 
hour of enjoyment comes, he must insist on 
his mind being free ; expelling every pre- 
occupation, nonchalantly accepting risks like 
a youth , he must abandon him^lf to the hour* 
Let him practise ligh t hear tedn ess us though 
it were charity. Indeed, it is charity — to his 
household, for instance. Ask his household* 

He says : — 

" All this is very dangerous, My friends 
won't recognize me. I may go too far, I 
may become an idler and a spendthrift." 

Have no fear. 

Next month Mr, Arnold Bennett will make a most interesting contribution to our series 
&f articles, entitled u MY REMINISCENCES/' 

by Google 

Original from 



Illustrated by Gilbert Holiday. 

T'S the best bedroom in the 
house," declared George 

Lord Rochford, George's 
cousin, and the head of the 
family j exchanged a smile 
with his wife as he mur- 
mured : " No complaints, my dear George, I 
assure you/' 

Indeed, the room was charm ing, with an 
atmosphere of dignity about it which may be 
found in ancient houses not suffered to fall 
into decay. Finely proportioned, panelled in 
oak, with a deep oriel window and a wide 
fireplace in which some logs were smouldering^ 
it combined happily splendour with comfort. 
The vast four-poster bed was hung with 
crimson brocade ; the furniture was Chippen- 
dale of the best period \ the carpet had come 
long ago from Aubusson; and above the 
chimneypiece hung a beautiful lozenge- 
shaped Chinese mirror, the work of a muster- 
craftsman of the K'ang Hsi dynasty. 

" Halloa 1" said George, "They ought to 
have drawn the curtains." 
Lady Rochford answered him, 
" 1 told my maid not to shut out the 

These three persons had entered the room 
together, George, as host, leading the way. 
He presented pleasantly the type to be found 
wherever hounds run fast over stiff country, 
a jolly y red -faced j well-nourished squire, 
whose only grievance was accumulating 
weight. In salient contrast, Lord Rochford 
stood beside him, tall, slender, with a pale 
face delicately modelled, obviously a man of 
sensibility and refinement. George wore the 




evening coat of a famous hunt ; Lord Roch- 
ford was in black. Lady Roch ford's gown of 
white satin belonged to a bride. The men 
might have been anything between thirty and 
thirty-five ; the woman was hardly out of 
her teens, as distinguished in appearance as 
her husband — not quite a beauty, but 
extraordinarily attractive by reason of her 
graceful bearing and the intelligence which 
sparkled in her clear hazel eyes, Upon 
entering the room she had crossed to the 
fireplace and, bending down, spread her hands 
before the softly glowing logs. She did not 
move when George exclaimed, loudly :— 

" Look here, you two ! I want to make 
it plain that you are occupying this spooky 
room against my wish and against my 

u Good old George ! " said Lord Rochford, 

" 1 tell you, I wouldn't sleep in it for fifty 

Lady Rochford turned to look at him, 
Her voice had an amused inflection as she 
said, gently :■ — 

" But you won't tell us what has happened," 

George replied explosively : — 

" Because I can't. That's the spooky part. 
I don't know anything definite, When I took 
the place six months ago, we put the two 
kids in here. They saw nothing.' 1 

Lord Rochford laughed. 

" Healthy little beggars like your kids 
never do see anything," 

" Hold hard ! Their nurse saw something." 

" What did the nurse see ? " asked Lady 

(< That's the exasperating part of the story. 
The woman was a sensible sort, middle-aged, 
quiet, and absolutely to be trusted. She 
Original from 



refused to say a word, and left my service the 
next day." 

" Suppressed hysteria/' suggested Lord 

" Her goin' upset the other servants." 

" Naturally. Same stale old story." 

George continued, speaking in the hard, 
aggressive tone of a man who detests ridicule. 

" I shoved old Archie Sinclair into that 
four-poster when he came to us for a few days' 
cubbin'. You must admit, Arthur, that 
Archie is a tough nut. He spent one hour in 
that bed, and the rest of the night in the 
dressing-room. And he left us next mornin\ 
Ran mute, too — confound him ! " 

" Did himself too well at dinner." 

" The next cove was a parson. He did 
tell us something." 

For the first time Lady Rochford betrayed 
interest. She lifted her head sharply. 

" Ah ! " 

" It seems that whatever happens happens 
in the dark." 

Lord Rochford laughed again. He had 
slept in many rooms reputed to be haunted. 
But he had seen no ghosts, 

" Parson bolted too, lookin' like a hunted 
cat. The second investigator of what he 
called psychical phenomena was Gideon 

The illustrious name fell triumphantly 
from George's lips, and he perceived that he 
had made an impression at last. The head of 
the family, altogether too cool a- card, was 
genuinely impressed. 

" Are you speaking of the surgeon ? " 

" I am. He ran down to have a look at 
my knee just before Christmas. I told him 
about the parson, and he insisted, like you, 
upon movin' in. He moved out bright and 
earlv next mornin' and he told me to — to " 

"'Yes ? " 

" To smash that Chinese mirror." 

As he spoke George pointed dramatically 
at the mirror. Deliberately he had worked 
up to his climax. Against his protests a 
nice couple had chosen to occupy this room, 
although another had been prepared for 
them. Weakly he, the host, had consented. 
Nevertheless, throughout dinner, sitting next 
to the bride, and sensible of an increasing 
interest in and liking for so charming a 
creature, he had said to himself that it wasn't 
quite fair on her, a mere girl, obviously a 
woman of imagination. 

" Smash that mirror ? " repeated Lady 
Rochford. She stared at its shimmering 
surface as George went on : — 

" Of course, it isn't mine to smash." 

by Google 

" And it's a gem," said Lady Rochford. 

" I was told that it was loot from the 
Imperial Palace at Peking, and Murgatroyd 
asked me some questions about it. He saw 
something in it. What, he refused to say. 
And, for a man in his profession, he talked a 
lot of bosh about occultism, which I couldn't 
follow at all. Well, there you are ! I don't 
believe in the common or garden ghost, but 
something cryptic takes place in this room." 

Lord Rochford glanced at his watch. It 
was late, and the well-meaning George was 
becoming rather a bore. 

"I'm keener than ever," he declared. 

" Oh, yes," said his wife. 

George surrendered. 

" Right ! You see that bell ? " He indi- 
cated a bell to the right of the big bed. " It 
communicates with my room. Now, if any- 
thing happens, ring it, and I shall be with you 
in two jiffs. The other bell " — he pointed 
to an old-fashioned rope with a crimson 
tassel — " will bring a servant," 

" Much obliged, my dear fellow." 

George turned to the lady with a slightly 
nervous laugh. 

" There is a comfortable bed in the dress- 
ing-room, and, if you'll take a tip from me, 
Joan, you will sleep there. Got everything 
you want ? " 


" Then— good night." 

As George moved towards the door the 
head of the family — and as such, be it noted, 
Lord Rochford commanded his cousin's 
respect — said a last word. 

" Thank you, George. I'll promise you 
this : if I do see anything really uncanny I 
shall consult some brain specialist. Very 
odd things happien, but they happen to odd 
people, whose minds are out of working order. 
Good night, my dear fellow." 

" You're thrusters, both of you ! And I 
console myself with the reflection that my 
kiddies saw nothing. I don't want the 
gossips to say that I put the head of the 
family into a tight place. Good night." 

He went out, and they heard him whistle 
as he walked down the corridor. As the 
door closed behind his broad back the expres- 
sion upon Lord Rochford's face changed. 
The look of amused derision vanished. He 
met his wife's glance, and they smiled at 
each other. The gossips to whom their 
cousin had alluded were maliciously of opinion 
that a penniless girl had married a man very 
much older than herself for material blessings, 
but the most malicious of these, beholding 
the pair at this moment, would have admitted 

Original from 



instantly that here were true lovers tenderly 
and passionately devoted to each other, 
Rochford kissed the lips that came eagerly 
to meet his ; he held her head between his 

isn't he ? " As she smiled acquiescence he 
continued, reflectively: "I stand between 
him and many things that men value, and 
our marriage, Joan, must have made a 


" Quite, quite sure/' 
She pushed him towards 

difference, and yet he 
has always been the 
same cheery, kind pal ; 
unci I i-uuld see that 
he was sorely con- 
cerned at our sleeping 
in this jolly old room. 
Well, he is quite right 
about one thing — you 
must pass the nijrht in 
the dressing-room." 

" Oh, no." 

" Oh, yes. That 
absurd yarn about Sir 
Gideon Mur^atroyd 
impressed you* I saw 
the pupils of your dear 
eyes dilating/' 

" I shall stay Wre 
with you, Arthur. Pop 
into the dressing-room, 
and let me get my 
things off. J * 

M You are quite 
sure you don't funk it 
a tiny bit ? w 

the door of the 

hands, gazing deep into the hazel eyes which 

mirrored faithfully his image. Then he She pushed him tov 

whispered : "George is a good, kind fellow, dressing-room, murmuring, bk I'm so sleepy. 




" You're a plucky darling ! If we both 
see something " 

" No such luck/' she replied, gaily. 

" Shall I ring for your maid ? " 

" Don't. I told her to go to bed, because/' 
she laughed softly, " I want somebody else 
to brush my hair. Hurry up i " 

He lingered for another moment, loath to 
leave her. 

" The honeymoon was up yesterday/' she 

He replied fervently : " An enchanting 
month, with nothing to mar it." 

She sighed. 

"A sigh, Joan? Why?" 

She smiled at him reassuringly. " I sighed, 
Arthur, because we have been almost too 

" The honeymoon must go on/' 

She looked at him attentively. 

" If it could " 

Her charming face had grown serious, 
reflective, as if she were trying to analyse 
happiness. Profoundly in sympathy with 
her, he said, gravely : "Do you doubt me 
or yourself ? " 

" As if I could doubt you ! " 

He shifted uneasily beneath her tender 
glance, sensible that he stood upon a giddy 
pinnacle of her building, wearing a mantle of 
her fashioning. Tentatively he continued : — 

" If I were other than what you think me 
to be ? " 

His tone, rather than the words, puzzled 
her. But she said, proudly : " I know my 

He shrugged his shoulders, as the slightly 
derisive smile flickered once more about his 

" Is it possible," he asked, " for even you 
to know the man as apart from his trappings ? 
Strip me of my position, my rank, and the 
good things that go with these. Can you 
see me without them ? " 

" It is difficult," she admitted. " Natu- 
rally, I am proud of those good things. They 
count, oh, yes, but they can be counted also — 
turned into pounds, shillings, and pence. 
What remains under the trappings is above 
price, far beyond my reckoning." 

She spoke so simply, with such sincerity 
and feeling, that he was deeply moved. He 
kissed her with an odd fierceness, exclaiming : 
" For Heaven's sake don't mount me on a 
pedestal ! Now I shall leave you alone 
for a few minutes with a clear conscience, 
because we have George's solemn assurance 
that nothing happens when the lights are on." 

He went into his dressing-room. Lady 

Rochford began to take off her ornaments, 
the diamonds and pearls which were part of 
his trappings, historic jewels worn by genera- 
tions of women who had married into an 
ancient and honourable house. Having done 
this, she examined herself in the mirror, 
smiling because she knew that trinkets added 
nothing to her attractiveness. But she 
remarked that the surface of the mirror was 
dull and slightly damp. She beheld a blurred 
image. With her pocket-handkerchief she 
wiped the glass, and, not quite satisfied, 
struck a match and lit the candles which 
stood upon each side of the mirror. Then 
she went back to the dressing-table. As she 
approached it both candles flickered and went 
out. The sudden extinguishing provoked a 
startled exclamation, a penetrating " Oh ! " 
Her husband opened the dressing-room door 
and saw her staring at the candles. 

" Anything wrong ? " he asked. 

" Please don't make fun of me. I lit those 
candles — and — and — they went out." 

" And you screamed." 

" Arthur— I didn't. But it is— odd" 

" Odd ? Nothing odd that I can see. 
These old manor houses are confoundedly 
draughty, and the curtains of that window 
are not drawn. I'll light the candles so that 
they won't go out. Where are the matches ? " 

She handed the box to him, and he noticed 
that her fingers were trembling. Very care- 
fully he lighted the candles, allowing a little 
melted wax to drip from each. They burned 
clearly and steadily. 

" There ! I'll bet you sixpence that they 
don't go out." 

Lady Rochford was staring at the mirror. 
She touched it with the tip of a finger, saying, 
nervously : — 

" I noticed just now that the glass seemed 
damp, so I wiped a few inches of it. I see 
that it has clouded over again." 

" Of course it's damp. Let me wipe it." 

He fetched a towel and scrubbed it 

" It's dry enough now." 

He turned as he spoke, and saw that she 
was very pale. In his kindest, most per- 
suasive manner he said : — 

" Look here, Joan, you are frightened, you 
poor little dear ! Take what you want for 
the night and nip into the dressing-room." 

She shook her head valiantly. 

" Good Lord ! You're trembling, merely 
because two candles have flickered out — the 
most natural thing in the world." 

He had his back to the chimneypiece as 
he spoke, and was umilmg at his wife. She 




faltered : " Arthur — they have gone out 

He swung round. 

" By Jove, so they have ! " 

He spread out his hands, feeling for some 
draught, some intermittent current of air. 

" Is the window open ? " 

" No. Arthur — I am frightened. See, the 
mirror is quite dull again. Oh, I can't stand 

He replied, soothingly : " Of course you 

Then, without another word, he crossed to 
the bed, taking from it the nightgown and 
dressing-gown that lay upon it. Smilingly 
he placed these upon her arm, patting her 

" No arguments ! You pop off. I'll stick 
this out alone." 

" Arthur, please come with me." 

" I couldn't face George's grin to-morrow. 
Off you go ! " 

Gently but masterfully he half pushed 
her towards the dressing-room. Upon the 
threshold she murmured : — 

" Will you call me if anything does 
happen ? " 


" I won't go till you promise." 

" I promise." 

He kissed her and shut the door between 
them. For a few seconds he stood still, 
examining carefully every object in the room. 
He saw that the fire had burned low, and was 
about to replenish it when his face hardened. 
Beholding his face at this moment, none 
could have doubted that here was a man of in- 
flexible resolution. He walked swiftly to the 
door leading into the passage and switched off 
the electric light. The room became dark, but 
there was light enough from the window and 
the smouldering logs to see the mirror. He 
sat down opposite to it, staring at its surface, 
conscious of an intense mental alertness, a 
quickening of all the senses. He could hear, 
for example, the ticking of his watch, and he 
could smell what he had not yet noticed — a 
faint but unmistakable odour of drugs, an 
odour disagreeable but antiseptic, which 
suggested the cool, clean wards of a hospital. 

A minute or so may have passed. And then 
he made an odd discovery. The ticking 
became louder and more insistent. He put 
his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, to find 
that the watch was not there. And at once 
he remembered that he had laid it upon the 
table in the dressing-room. And the ticking 
was that of a clock. But no clock was in 
the room. Also the odour of carbolic acid 


became stronger. The co-ordination of this 
double appeal to the senses brought to mind a 
painful scene — a death-bed. He had watched 
the slow passing of one very dear to him, of 
one sunk into the merciful oblivion of coma. 
He had sat during many hours waiting for the 
inevitable change, with faculties dulled by 
sorrow, with senses that recorded two things 
alone — the solemn tick of a clock and the 
pungent odour of a strong antiseptic. 

Suddenly a third sense was tremendously 
affected. The surface of the mirror became 
brighter, and then amorphous shadows 
passed across it. Rochford leaned forward. 
The vision inspired in him amazement, 
anguish, and, finally, terror. A cry broke 
from him. 

Instantly the door of the dressing-room 
opened, and Lady Rochford entered. She 
saw that her husband was sitting huddled up 
on the couch at the foot of the bed. He had 
covered his face with his hands. She heard 
a sob of horror and pain, and realized that he 
was oblivious of her presence. Instinctively 
she glanced at the mirror. The light from 
the dressing-room illumined it clearly, and 
she could see reflected in it the door leading 
to the passage, a tall chest of drawers, the 
edge of the crimson hangings, and nothing 
more. She touched Rochford's shoulder, 
calling him by name. 

" Arthur ! What have you seen ? " 

At her touch he shuddered ; at her voice 
he stood up, still trembling. 

" I saw— I saw " 

" What ? " 

With a violent effort he regained control 
of his limbs and features. In a chill, dull 
voice he answered : — 

" I can't tell you." 

" But— you musty 

Her voice rang out imperatively. He 
became oddly sensible that she seemed 
larger, a woman grown to her full stature, 
his equal in mind and body, possibly the 
stronger personality of the two. Then the 
strength that informed her voice, the virtue 
that beamed in her fine eyes, seemed to pass 
into him. He drew himself up, speaking 
slowly, but with dignity. 

" I have seen nothing, Joan, except the 
disordered fancies of a mind less sane than I 
had supposed it to be." He paused for a 
moment, and as she said nothing he added, 
decisively : " To-morrow I shall put myself 
into the hands of a doctor." 

" You tell me that you have seen nothing ? " 

" Nothing which cannot be explained." 

" Then please explain it to me," 


7 6 


His eyes met hers with a certain defiance. 
Very steadily they gazed at each other. 
Fear seemed to have left her, and colour 
had flowed back into her cheeks. Far other- 

she was on her knees beside him, the minis- 
tering angel, aflame to console, thinking only 
of his wounds, not her own. But she per- 
ceived, with an ever-increasing dismay, that 


wise was it with him* She saw the sweat 
break upon his forehead ; his eyes fell 
moodily as he said, listlessly :— 

u I can't explain," 

H You mean — is it possible ?— that vou 
won't ? " 

-t Joan, for pity's sake don't torment me," 

He sank back upon the sofa. Instantly 

her whispered words of love, her tender 
caresses, evoked no response. He sat im- 
passive beneath them. She rose from her 

14 Arthur " —her voice was soft, but clear— 
" is this horror, for it is a horror, going tu 
stand between our love for each other ? " 

He repe€teid)ith¥l framk stammer ingly :- — 




44 Our Move for each other ? " 

44 Dearest, there can be no perfect love 
without trust. I entreat you to trust me." 

He remained silent, looking at the mirror, 
not at her. She whispered : " Do you see 
anything now ? " 

44 Nothing, nothing. What I saw, Joan, 
was a memory visualized, a very poignant 
memory. That is all." 

" A memory ? May I not share that 
memory ? " 

44 Not yet," he faltered. 

" The memory, you say, was visualized in 
that glass, a memory which seems to have 
affected you most terribly. And you, the 
sanest, the coolest of men, talk to me of a 
disordered mind. I refuse to believe that 
your mind is disordered. You saw some- 
thing in that mirror. You saw what others 
have seen." 

" No, positively no ! Others have not 
seen what I thought I saw." 

" Sir Gideon Murgatroyd saw something ; 
Mr. Sinclair saw something. Now, I have a 
suggestion to make : I will sit beside you on 
this sofa, and in the darkness I will gaze with 
you into that mirror. Then, if I do not see 
what you see, I shall know that your mind is 
disordered. What do you say ? " 

" It would be a real test," he answered, 

She seated herself beside him. 

" Please turn out the lights." 

For the second time her courage infused 
energy and courage into him. He seemed to 
have recovered his self-control as he said, 
tenderly : — 

" Joan, are you strong enough for such a 
test ? Is it fair on you ? " 

44 Nothing else will satisfy me. Turn out 
the electrics ! " 

44 If you should see what terrified me ? " 

44 We should see it together. I am not 
afraid any longer. Perhaps my love for you 
has cast out my fear." 

He took her hand and kissed it. 

44 So be it," he said, solemnly. 

He left her rigidly upright on the sofa, and 
walked towards the door. But he paused 
at the corner of the great bed and turned. 
When he spoke she noted that his voice was 
quietly normal, but she marked an inflection 
of entreaty in the familiar tones, a supplica- 
tion almost, both new and strange. 

44 I want to make a sort of bargain with 

" A bargain — with me?" 

" If nothing comes of this experience, and 
I feel a conviction that nothing will come of 

it, will you let matters rest as they are ? 
Will you believe, as I believe, that I have 
suffered from some monstrous nightmare ? " 

" You called it a memory just now." 

" A nightmare is a memory distorted." 
He continued, with greater urgency : " Even 
you, Joan, might shrink from telling me some 
horrid dream, some appalling vision of night 
and darkness from which you have waked 
shuddering with terror, the greater because 
you were unable to define it." 

She answered him frankly, without hesita- 

" If we see nothing, Arthur, I shall share 
with you the conviction that we have let 
our imaginations run amok to-night, and I 
consent to let the matter rest there ; on the 
other hand " 

44 Yes ? " 

44 If — if that mirror reveals to both of us 
something, anything, beyond the reflections 
we see there now, you must promise to share 
with me, as I promise to share with you, the 
burden of that revelation." 

44 You will see nothing," he said, hastily. 

The slight emphasis on the personal pro- 
noun escaped her. 

" If I see nothing," she replied, " I shall 
ask no more questions." 

He walked to the door and switched off 
the light. 

Rochford came back to his wife and sat 
down. She slipped her hand into his, and 
noticed how cold his hand was compared 
with her own. In the dim firelight she could 
see that his gaze was fixed upon the mirror, 
in which, so far as she was aware, no change 
had as yet taken place. She felt no fear for 
herself, absorbed by anxiety for her husband. 
She stole another glance at his face, white 
and rigid with concentration. And then 
suddenly his grasp tightened. 

44 Do you hear anything ? " he whispered. 

She listened. Yes, she could hear a faint 

44 Do you hear a clock ticking ? " he asked. 

" No ; I hear a sound like the humming of 

4< Joan, can you smell anything ? " 

" Yes, I do smell something." 

" What ? " 

" It is quite fragrant." 

11 Fragrant ? " He spoke irritably. " It 
is an abominable odour of drugs." 

44 Oh, no ! I smell lavender, the scent of a 
lovely garden in September. Ah ! " 

The exclamation fell sharply from her. The 
surface of the minor had become luminous. 




Unconsciously she withdrew her hand and 
leaned forward, her lips parted, her bosom 
rising and falling with excitement. 

" You see something ? " he said, hoarsely. 

Her voice was steadier than his as she 
answered : " Yes, I see the garden of my old 

" I see a room — a bedroom." 

" Arthur, it's a garden. Surely you see 
what I see ? " 

He made no reply, leaning forward, peering 
into the mysterious glass which revealed to 
each a vision so different. The woman 

" What do you see now, Joan ? " 

She answered constrainedly : " The face 
of a man." 

" You are sure that it is not the face of a 
woman ? " 

" Absolutely." Her voice quavered oddly, 
and she wondered whether her husband could 
hear the beating of her heart. Fear possessed 
her. In a moment she knew that she would 

" A woman's face is staring at me," muttered 
Rochford. " She is beckoning — beckoning." 

He rose up and moved a step nearer to the 
chimneypiece, holding out his hands, speaking 
in a low voice broken by emotion, speaking 
not to his wife, but to the face in the mirror. 

" I promised — yes, I promised." 

At his voice, hardly recognizable, a palsy 
shook her limbs. She desired to move, but 
could not. Her tongue defied the craving to 

Rochford had moved nearer to the mirror. 
She could hear him speaking in the same 
hoarse whisper, but his words were inarticu- 
late. Moreover, to her eyes the glass had 
grown dull ; the vision had faded. The 
significance of what she had seen ceased to 
challenge her attention. She became absorbed 
in watching the man she loved, who of a sudden 
seemed remote from and alien to her. Domi- 
nating these confused impressions was the 
yearning to break the spell, to tear him from 
that unknown woman with whom he was 
pleading desperately as if for his very life. 

" Oh," she exclaimed, " I can't bear it any 
longer ! " 

When she spoke power returned to her limbs. 
She rose to her feet as he turned to confront 
her, and for an instant they stared in silence 
deep into each other's souls. Upon each face 
terror had convulsed the features, an evil 
fear of — what ? She hardly recognized him. 
He gazed at her defiantly, almost savagely, 
with a frowning interrogation, discovering in 
her some strange woman. It may have been 

the effect of the dim light, but the clear 
pallor of his skin had become a dingy yellow, 
as if the vital fluid had ceased to circulate. 
The crowning horror to her was the certainty 
that some devil possessed and was tearing him. 

She moved swiftly to the door and switched 
on the electric current. Rochford passed his 
hand across his eyes and laughed derisively. 
Then he said : — 

" What did you see in that cursed glass ? " 

" I will tell you everything." 

" You told me that you saw a man." 

" Yes" 

He seized her hand. 

" I can guess what you saw. When we 
became engaged, when I kissed you, you 
swore that I was the first. Was I ? Was I ? " 
he repeated, fiercely, as she remained silent. 

" N-no," she faltered. 

" Then you — you lied to me ? " 

She raised her eyes to his. 

" I lied to you, Arthur, because I loved you 
so much." 

" Go on. What else did you see ? " 

" Something that happened two years ago. 
I was walking in the garden at home, picking 
lavender. A man was stopping in the house, 
an old friend of the family, somebody I 
trusted as I trusted my father. I was only 
seventeen, an innocent child. He kissed mc." 

" And then ? " 

" He kissed me brutally. I tore myself 
away from him ; I rushed to my room ; I 
scrubbed my lips, but the stain remained. 
It was horrible ! The awful thing to me was 
that he, my father's friend, had done it. 
And when you asked me if a man had ever 
kissed my lips with passion, I — I lied to you. 
I couldn't tell you the humiliating, shameful 

" Is that— all ? " 

" All ? " she repeated, unable to interpret 
the expression upon his face. 

" A man kissed you." 

" A man ? He was a beast." 

Rochford laughed, and the laugh relieved 
the tension, because it was entirely mirthful. 
He became himself again. 

" Joan, dear, what an absolutely idiotic 
story ! " 

" But I lied about it to you, and that lie 
has rankled. I have thought of it a thousand 

" You scrubbed your dear little lips, but 
the stain remained. I know how to remove 
it, you fond, foolish woman." 

Still holding her hand, he drew her 
towards him. She released herself gently, 
but inexorably. 




" One moment, Arthur, I have told you 
what was a great shame and misery to me, 
although it appears negligible to you, Now 
it is your turn. What did you see in that 
mirror ? " 

w Joan, don't ask me. I entreat you/' 

" You promised," 

*' I beseech you to release me from that 
promise* I saw what you saw, what Murga- 

the family honours, a certain lucidity of 
speech had distinguished him. 

" It has been held by wiser men than I 
that nothing is destroyed irrevocably, that- 
given the right conditions — what has been 
may be reproduced again, a theory which 
explains many mysteries transcending ordi- 
nary experience* The mystery of that 
mirror may lie in us. It would seem that 
the persons who have gazed into it ? under 
certain conditions, have beheld some scene 
in their previous lives which they have 
believed to be buried in their own hearts. 


troyd saw — a scene out of a past that I had The natural solution is that the whoie thing 

thought buried." He continued hurriedly, is an effect of conscience,'* 

dreading an interruption, although he selected " There is more than that, Arthur." 

his words with care. As a debater in the *' Possibly. How it was made I cannot 

House of Commons, before he succeeded to guess, but .1 .do joof. tofojy.iWF- Jthe receivers 



and transmitters of the Marconi instruments 
are made." 

" And I do not care," she said, sharply. 
" What concerns me vitally is this : our 
happiness is at stake." 
" Our happiness ? " 

" I am no longer a child, but a woman, 
Arthur, with a woman's passionate love and 
a woman's jealousy. You saw a woman's 
face in that glass ; you spoke to a woman in 
words I couldn't hear, in words broken by 
intense emotion." 
He passed his hand across his forehead. 
" Did I ? I don't remember." 
" I shared a past with you that I loathed. 
Share your past with me, even if you loved 

He opened his lips to speak, and then 
closed them. She came nearer, moved by 
his distress, but determined to hold him to 
his pledge. 

" Was that woman very dear to you, 
" Yes." 

He spoke curtly, but not harshly, and his 
expression softened. 
" Oh ! " 

Ingenuously she put her hand to her heart, 
wounded the more deeply because he appeared 
to be unconscious of the pain his admission 
inflicted. She detected tears in his eyes. 
" Who was this woman ? " 
" She is dead. Ask me no more, dearest. 
My secret is not what you think it to be." 

She hesitated, completely puzzled by his 

manner, by his strange air of detachment. 

Torn by conflicting emotions, she muttered : — 

" Can you swear that this secret is no 

concern of mine ? " 

He did not answer. 

" Ah ! you can't. If you could I would 
leave it at that willingly, gladly ; but it does 
concern me." 

" It does," he admitted, reluctantly. 
" Directly or indirectly ? " 
" Directly and indirectly." 
" Arthur, you must share it with me." 
She laid her hand gently upon his arm, 
constraining him to sit down beside her. 
Then she slipped her hand into his with a 
pretty confidence, and a faint beguiling smile 
upon her lips. He said, vehemently : — 

" This secret has been a dreadful burden 
to me. It will hurt you cruelly; more- 
alter your life." 

" I want to share all your burdens." 
She pressed closer to him, trying to make 
him understand that no woman, dead or 
alive, could come between them. He 

returned the tender pressure, staring intently 
at her face, as he said : — 

" The woman I saw in that mirror was my 

" Your mother ! " 

" I have never talked to you about my 

" That has hurt me a little." 

" We were tremendous pals. I regarded 
her as a kind, sympathetic elder sister. She 
knew me in and out. I thought that I knew 

He paused, turning his eyes from his wife, 
who said, gently : " I have heard her called 
a saint." 

He continued slowly : " One subject 
between us was barred. She never mentioned 
my father. As you know, she was separated 
from him. I had to spend part of my holi- 
days at Rochford, a week here and there. I 
loved the place, but I hated the owner of it." 

" My poor Arthur ! " 

" I remember thinking as a boy that it 
would be horrible to grow up like him. 
Later, after I left Eton, I discovered that he 
had been brutal to her. She could have 
divorced him, but she wouldn't. You spoke 
of her just now as a saint. Saints are often 
made out of sinners. When my mother lav- 
dying she sent for me. I was abroad, and I 
arrived only just in time. She could hardly 
speak ; but she had lingered on in terrible 
pain to whisper the truth to me. She told 
me that I was not the son of the late Lord 

" What ? " 

" The real Lord Rochford is George." 

" Good heavens ! " 

" My mother entreated me to abandon a 
name that wasn't mine, to give up the old 
place and all that went with it, and I — 
Heaven help me ! — I — I " 

4i You refused ? " 

" No ; I pledged myself to do as she asked." 

He rose abruptly, walked to the chimney- 
piece, and gazed into the surface of the 
mirror, now dull again. His wife covered 
her face with her hands, trying to realize 
what he had said, to see him as he stood con- 
fessed, a man without a name, without trap- 
pings other than those he had taken from the 
lawful heir. 

" Why did you break that pledge ? " 

Without looking round, he answered dully : 
" For the same reason that made you hide 
your absurd little secret from me — because 
I loved you, because I feared to lose you," 

" I understand." 

" I wonder whether you can ? And you 




may be sure that the devil furnished me with 
other excellent reasons for holding my tongue. 
George has plenty of money. And I told 
myself that a promise extorted by the dying 
from the living is a pledge not binding. I 
would have promised anything to save her 
pain. Afterwards I comforted myself with 
the reflection that I was cherishing her good 
name. Everybody loved and honoured her ; 
everybody knew that my reputed father had 
behaved like a brute to her. 

" I always wondered/' she said, softly, " how 
you could be his son." 

She rose swiftly, clasping him in her arms, 
pulling his head down to hers, kissing his lips 

" It makes no difference to my love for you." 

" You sweet woman ! " 

Unmistakable joy animated his voice. He 
began to kiss her hair, her eyes, her cheeks 
in a passion of emotion. She returned his 
ardent caresses, clinging to him, whispering 
again and again that she was his eternally, 
and that he was hers till death and after 
death. When these first ardours had 
passed, she exclaimed, triumphantly : — 

" You thought that your position counted 
with me ; others thought so too." 

" You are simply wonderful ! " 

" When will you tell George ? " 

He stood back from her, the light fading 
out of his eyes. 

" Tell George ? Do you want me to tel 1 
George ? " 

" Is anythirtgvfilse possible ? " 

" That seems almost impossible. Am I not 
the better man?" He continued, quickly: 
" George will remain what he is to-day, a 
fox-hunting squire, addicted to the pleasures 
of the chase — and the table. I " — he drew 
himself up — " well, you know what I have 
done with another's birthright." 

" It is another's birthright." 

" Joan, I shouldered that responsibility 
when I married you. It is mine, not 

" Half of it is mine now." 

" But the cost of renunciation to you ! " 

" Nothing counts with me in comparison 
with your honour." 

" My honour ? Isn't it rather late in the 
day to speak of that ? " 

" You told tne, but you have no intention 
of telling George?" 

" You insisted on sharing this secret." 

She had thought that the battle was over ; 
it had only just begun. She essayed a flight 
into the future, beating her wings against a 
gale, peering into the darkness, seeking some 
* * " ligiiizedbydOOgle 

Vol xw.-a 

ark of refuge. She heard him saying, 
hoarsely : — 

" You could never stand the exposure." 

Desperately she clutched him. 

" Never mind about my standing it. Could 
you stand it ? " 

He replied, evasively : " Not if it affected 
you — I am convinced of that." 

The flash of this conviction seemed to 
illuminate new and strange vistas down 
which she wandered with him, a nobleman,* 
noble only by virtue of appearance, really a 
nobody, in her eyes and his own contemptibly 

" Arthur, I thought I saw you clearly just 
now, but you are blurred again. Are you 
thinking of yourself or of me ? " 

" I'm thinking of you." 

" If it had not been for me you would have 
kept your promise to your mother ? " 

" Yes " 

" Are you quite, quite sure of that ? " 

" I think so." 

But she realized that he was not quite 
sure, a perception which gave her pause. 
He added, hesitatingly :— 

" Legally, I am Lord Rochfqrd." 

" What do you mean by legally ? " 

" The law recognizes a child born in wedlock 
as legitimate. For instance, if the late Lord 
Rochford had declared that I was not his son, 
and brought the matter into court, the law. 
would have sustained my legitimacy, unless his 
declaration had been fortified by overwhelm- 
ing proofs. However, he believed me to be 
his son. Our position, you must understand, 
is unassailable." 

" From without." 

" I might plead that my mother was dying, 
so prostrated by suffering as to be hardly 

" Arthur, you don't plead that, do you ? " 

" I don't. But I might— you might." 

The temptation gripped her savagely, with 
a force that made her turn faint. Her own 
people had never suffered the pinch of 
poverty ; on the other hand, they had 
never been rich. Ends were carefully adjusted 
to means. 

" I suppose we should be very poor," she 

" I inherit a few hundreds a year from my 
mother. Only yesterday George told me 
that he was glad he had escaped my responsi- 

" I feel as if I was suffocating ; and yet, 
and yet, I am thankful that you told me." 

" The decision shall rest with you." 

" Is that quite h\x on me ? " 




" I think so "—he spoke judicially— 
* because you have most to lose. The things 
you will have to surrender are dear to all 
women. I pledge myself to abide by your 
decision. 11 

She flashed a hunted glance upon him, but 
he turned his head aside and sat down, The 
sparkle of her diamond ornaments arrested 
attention. She loved these pretty things, 
but nearly all of them were heirlooms* The 
colour flowed into her pale cheeks as she 
remembered that she might bear children. 
She tried to compute the effect of straitened 
means upon them. Then she looked at the 
mirror, and a curious whim seized her. 

11 Don't move/' she said to her husband, 
" I want to consult that." 

She switched off the 
lights and stood in front 
of the glass j waiting for a 
change that never came. 

" Do you see any thl ng ? " 
he whispered, 

" Nothing." 

She knew that she would 
see nothing, if she waited 
till Doomsdaw The mirror 
had revealed her own soul 
and his. The evil that 
may be comprehended in 
a lie had filled her with 
terror. The same effect 
was produced in him. She 
grasped what is perhaps 
the divincst of all truths, 
the real attribute of the 
sou I j its faculty of reflect- 
ing and transmitting light. 
The mind might blunder 
and grope in obscurity ; 
it might — how often it 
did ! — be inspired with 
craven fear of the soul, 
unwilling to face its blind- 
ing radiance. Thus it had 
been with him and her. 
But hence f orw r ard she 
would know positively that 
happiness could not be 
achieved by the mind ; it 
depended wholly upon the 
soul, upon the light, lack- 
ing which it must be ex- 
tinguished ; and then the 
baser weeds of the human 
heart would flourish 
monstrously in darkness 
and silence. 

She wondered afterwards > f (*wui 

V ' 

how much time had passed while she stood 
at the parting of the ways, looking down 
in horror, looking up in ecstasy, conscious in 
every fibre of her being that her soul's 
verdict had been delivered. 

She walked swiftly to the door and switched 
on the light. Her husband stood up, staring 
at her face, as if it were the face of an angeh 
She pressed the electric bell communicating 
with George's room, and in the distance the 
vibrating tinkle was plainly heard. 

M I have rung for George/' she said, slowly, 
" You must tell him everything to-night/ 1 
" To-night ? " 

(< I love you — the man, not the inheritor of 
a great name, I am glad that I can prove 
my love ; glad that my love, which drove you 
to dishonour, can lift you 
out of it and above it. 
Redeem your pledge, if 
you love me truly, and I 
shall be the happiest wife 
in England. Bury your 
secret in my heart, and 
of all women I shall be 
the most miserable and 

As she finished speak- 
ing he caught her in his 
arms, and she saw him — 
un blurred* 

"My God," he ex- 
claimed, passionately, 
" how I'll work for you ! " 
"We'll work together." 
George came hurrying 
in, his red face crimson 
with excitement, his 
slightly prominent blue 
eyes bulging out of his 
" You rang ? " 
" Yes." 

"Seen anything 

spooky ? n 

Arthur an- 

«, swered slowly : 

"I have seen 

what any man 

* may see without 

f looking into any 

mirror except his 

own soul. We 

shall sleep sound 

enough in that 

old bed, but not 

till I have told 

you something." 

?, s r n^OT 3 a ' Tr Then he told it 



The Latest Views of Science. 


Head of the Psychological Department, King's College, University of London. 

Illustrated by Vernon Anson* 

HE meaning of dreams has 
exercised man's imagination 
throughout the ages, and may 
with some plausibility be 
regarded as the first question 
which the human mind set to 
itself in the earliest dawn of 
reason on our planet. Among the ancients 
the explanation most readily accepted was 
that dreams, in many if not in all cases, were 
revelations of a superior power, the voice of 
a god or demon, imparting to the dreamer 
knowledge of things future or far distant 
which he could not acquire by his own unaided 
faculties. However absurd a dream might 
superficially appear, interpretation according 
to the right " code " of symbolism was 
considered capable of giving it sense. In 
modern times, however, the theory that is 
on the whole most popular is one which 
denies all meaning to dreams, and regards 
them as merely the confused and jumbled 
reappearance during sleep of memories belong- 
ing to the person's past history, strung together 
in any chance order. At least, this is the 
theory adopted by many so-called scientists 
who do not happen to have studied this 
particular problem scientifically. 

These two views are the extremes between 
which the manifold opinions held by modern 
thinkers will be found to oscillate. Some- 
where between them, no doubt, the truth 
must lie. It is quite possible that no one 
explanation will suffice for all cases, but that 
different types of dreams require different 
theories to explain them. In any case, one 
is now able to limit the possibilitiss within 
fixed bounds, thanks to the careful scientific 
research that has been done in connection 
with the subject during quite recent years. 
Not only have trained scientists observed 
and recorded their dreams with great accuracy 
over long stretches of time ; they have also 
studied dreams experimentally, by delibe- 
rately interfering with a person's sleep in 
certain ways and noting the effect on his 
dreams. The object of the present article 

is to state the more important of these 
scientifically-ascertained facts in simple lan- 
guage, to describe several important theories 
that have been suggested in recent years, 
giving actual dreams as examples, and to 
indicate what seems to be the most probable 
explanation of dreams in the light of our 
present knowledge. Since the explanation 
of dreams given quite recently by Professor 
Sigmund Freud, of Vienna, is exceptionally 
original, as well as being highly ingenious and 
interesting, much space will be devoted to 
the description and explanation of this theory. 
Even if it is not the entire truth about dreams, 
there is little doubt that it contains a great 
part of the truth. 

Almost all scientific observers agree that 
the materials of which dreams are made are 
memories of past experiences of the individual. 
Curiously enough, the memories that occur 
most frequently are those of the previous 
day and those of early childhood. The former 
class are to be found in every dream, and are 
probably an essential condition to its forma- 
tion ; the latter (recollections of childhood) 
seem to be of even greater importance, since 
they contribute much of the hidden meaning 
of the dream. In many cases where the 
incidents of a dream seem to be entirely 
unfamiliar it has been shown by careful 
investigation that they correspond to actually 
experienced events that have escaped the 
memory of the waking self. Delbceuf records 
an interesting example of this. In 1862 he 
dreamt that he found two lizards in the snow. 
He took them up, warmed them, and placed 
them in a hole in a wall, together with a 
small fern, which he knew they liked to eat. 
The name of this fern seemed in his dream to 
be Asplenium ruta muralis. Later on in his 
dream he saw two other lizards come and eat 
the remains of the fern, and then a whole 
host of lizards coming to the wall in a long 
procession which covered the entire street. 
On awaking he could not remember ever to 
have heard the name of the fern of his dream, 

although he discovered that a fern called 





' (J 



Asplenium ruta muraria really existed. Sixteen 
years later , however ,, he happened to be turning 
over the pages of a friend's album of dried 
flowers, and to his surprise came across the 
very fern* with the Latin name written under- 
neath in his own handwriting. He then 
remembered that in i860, two years before 
the dream , he had met the sister of this friend f 
and to please her had written the Latin names 
under the % f arious plants in her album at 
the dictation of a botanist. Fifteen years 
after the dream he also discovered the source 
of the lizard procession in an old illustrated 
paper, dated 1861, which, as a regular sub- 
scriber , he must have seen, Innumerable 
cases of a similar nature are on record, and 
go to show how remarkably heightened the 
memory may be in dreams. They also warn 
us not too rashly to believe that incidents in 
a dream which seem entirely new are really so. 
Another characteristic of the memory in 
dreams is that it chooses incidents that in the 
waking life are the most unimportant and 
trivial, and passes over events that have 
absorbed the dreamer's attention during the 
day. This is especially the case with regard 
to the parts of the dream originating in the 
events of the previous day. Indeed, upon 
this fact has been built the theory that 
dreaming is to be explained as the method 

which the mind employs for eliminating or 
lt excreting J> the unimportant incidents of the 
day, which if left in the mind would disturb 
its normal functions. 

A very remarkable feature of dreams is 
the apparent speed with which they occur. 
A fraction of a second may suffice for quite 
a long and complicated dream. The classical 
instance of this is a dream recorded by 
Maury. Maury dreamt that he was living 
in Paris at the time of the French Revolu- 
tion; that, after many adventures, he was 
eventually arrested and brought before a 
tribunal consisting of Robespierre, Marat, 
Fouquier-Tinville, and the rest, was cross- 
questioned, and eventually condemned to 
death. Accompanied by an innumerable 
crowd of people, he proceeds to the scaffold, 
the executioner binds him to the plank ? the 
knife falls, he feels his head severed from his 
body, and — wakes up terror-stricken, to 
find that the curtain-pole of his bed has fallen 
across his neck. If the facts are correct, it 
would seem that this complicated dream 
took place between the moment that the 
curtain-pole fell and the moment the dreamer 
awoke. But another explanation of this 
and similar dreams is possible, as we shall 
presently Original from 

I *LWI PrtFSSPiMi^O M-IPPffKiKIT appropriately 




the d r e a m 
adapts itself 
to the nature 
of the waking 
yet how di- 
vergent the 
dreams may 
be which on 
end with the 
same waking 
gives three 
striking ex- 
amples of 
brought t o 
an end {or 
aroused?) by 
an alarum- 
clock. In 
the first the 
dreamer is 
through the 
fields on a 
spring morn- 
ing, meets 
people walk- 
ing in their 
best clothes, 
prayer - book 
in hand, and 
remem bers 
that it is 
Easter Day. 
Eventual 1 y 
reaching a 
church , he 
rests in the 

churchyard to cool himself f and hears the 
bell-ringer slowly mount the rickety stairs 
of the steeple* After an appreciable pause 
the bell begins to move and sends out a clear 
note, which quickly changes to a harsh 
clamour, and he awakes to hear the alarum- 
clock. In another dream k is the depths of 
winter, snow lies deep on the ground, he pre- 
pares for a sleigh-ride. The sleigh is at the 
door. He dons fur coat and cap, mounts, 
and j after a few moments' delay , during which 
the horses paw the ground with Impatience, 
shakes the reins. The horses bound forward , 
the sleigh-bells tinkle — then the note changes. 


and he awakes to the sound of the alarum- 
clock. In a third dream he sees a maid- 
servant carrying a tall pile of plates from the 
kitchen, and calls out : "Be careful ; they 
will fall ! " The maid ignores his warning, 
stumbles on the threshold, he sees the column 
sway in the air and then fall with a crash, and 
he awakes — again to hear the alarum-clock, 

One is tempted to conclude from these 
instances that the dreams were produced by 
the waking stimulus, and were so many 
unsuccessful attempts of the drowsy con- 
sciousness to... perceive and interpret the 
nature of this intruding stimulus* In fact. 



Maury, Weygandt, and others have experi- 
mentally produced dreams in this way, 
Maury got someone to tickle him on the lips 
and nose with a feather while asleep. He 
dreamed of a frightful torture, m which a 
plaster mask was laid on his face and then 
torn away, dragging the skin with it. On 
another occasion water was dropped upon his 
forehead. He dreamt that he was in Italy 
and perspiring profusely from the heat; 
also that he was drinking the white wine of 

These experi- 
ments are cer- 
tainly sufficient 
to show how im- 
portant the wak- 
ing stimulus is in 
the production of 
dreams, but it 
needs I it tie reflec- 
tion upon them 
to see that the 
state of the per- 
sons mind and 
brain at the 
moment is of at 
least equal im- 
portance. In 
every case the 
real explanation 
of the dream , if 
an explanation is 
demanded at all, 
must be looked 
for in the latter of 
these two factors. 
Professor Freud's 
theory of dreams 
does explain 
them in this 
way, and, conse- 
quently, is far 
more satisfactory 
than most other 
theories. But 
before describing 
this theory I 

must just mention another which, as it 
were, paves the way to Freud's view. This 
is the theory of Schemer. Schemer held 
that dreams were due to organic sensations — 
ijf m , sensations aroused by changes in the 
internal organ s, such as the stomach, liver , 
heart, etc. These sensations are, of course, 
present during waking life, but in sleep, 
owing to the suppression of sensations of 
sight, hearing, etc, they became very much 
more prominent. The mind then reacts to 


them (i symbolically/' translating them into 
sensations of sight and touch which may 
correspond to their shape or represent them 
in some other plausible and metaphorical 
way. Thus, in a headache during sleep the 
head may be represented by a room with 
spiders crawling over the ceiling* The sensa- 
tions from the lungs, when pronounced, may 
be symbolized in the dream-consciousness by 
the roaring of a stove filled with flames. 
Persons suffering from heart-trouble may 

dream of driving 
sweating horses 
up a steep hill. 
Disturbances of 
inner sensations 
seem in this way 
not only to be 
transformed, but 
also to undergo a 
kind of psychical 
magnifi cation. 
Dreams may thus 
in many cases act 
like a mental 
microscope, and 
reveal the earliest 
begi nnings of 
mental or physi- 
cal disease which 
might otherwise 
escape the phy- 
sician's notice. 
Aristotle was the 
first thinker to 
recognize this 
fact, and he em- 
phasized its im- 
portance as an 
aid in the diag- 
nosis of com- 
mencing disease. 
Freud's theory, 
put quite briefly, 
is that every 
dream represents 
the fulfilment of 
some wish. This wish-fulfilment in most 
cases occurs in a disguised form, and only 
becomes apparent after interpretation of the 
dream according to his method of l psycho- 
analysis.' 3 Freud draws an important dis- 
tinction between what he calls the " manifest 
content " and the " latent content " of a 
dream. The i( manifest content f> is the dream 
as it appears for ordinary observation, and 
shows all the characteristics which we have 
enu m ^ i|ff r^r^ c ^_^ticle. Th* is, 



it is shadowy, 

and is made 
up of elements 
that come 
from (in many 
cases) long- 
forgotten in- 
cidents of the 
dreamer's past 
life. The differ- 
ent parts of the 
dream are 
joined together 
in an appa- 
r e n 1 1 y arbi- 
trary manner. 
The M latent 
content n is 
the hidden 
meaning of the 
dream, and in 
every case re- 
presents the 
fulfilment of 
some wish. 
The wish often 
originates from 
the earliest 
years of one's 
life and dis- 
guises itself in 
the fragment- 
ary memories 
of the previous 
day, although 
many wishes 
of one's recent 

life may also be represented in dreams. 
Often it is only upon analysis and in- 
terpretation of a dream that one becomes 
aware of the very existence of the wish. 
The wish exists in what is called the 
subconscious or unconscious part of the 
person's mental life, and may only come to 
the surface of the mind in this disguised form 
of a dream. Why should the wish be hidden 
or disguised in this way ? Because, says 
Freudj it is not in harmony with the ethical or 
conventional ideals of the waking life. Many 
wishes of early childhood are evidently of 
this nature, and therefore they have been 
il suppressed " (but not annihilated) by the 
censor of the waking and conventional self. 
Even during sleep this censor still keeps 
watch over the mind, though not with the 
same alertness as in the daytime. The 



forbidden wishes, which in waking life are 
kept out of consciousness altogether, find 
that they can evade the vigilance of the 
censor during sleep by disguising themselves 
— i.e., by assuming a symbolic dress patched 
up out of the neglected memories of the 
dreamer's recent experiences — and can so slip 
past into the half-light of dream consciousness. 
In order to overcome this resistance of the 
censor, it may be necessary for the wish to 
undergo great distortion. Feelings may be 
changed into their opposites, hostility repre- 
sented by apparent friendship and tenderness, 
pleasure by pain and anxiety ; unimportant 
details may be over-emphasized and the 
essential parts of the dream left in shade and 
obscurity. As the dreamer rouses and 
eventually wakes, the censor gains greater 
power and perspicacity, and does its best to 





wipe out the traces of the dream altogether. 
This is Freud's explanation of the remarkable 
rapidity with which most dreams are forgotten 
after waking. 

The wish may be of a quite innocuous 
nature, and yet appear in the dream in a 
disguised form. It is reported that Alexander 
the Great, when besieging Tyre (which was 
making such a stubborn resistance that he 
despaired of taking it), dreamt one night 
that he saw a satyr dancing on his shield. 
An astrologer, Aristandros, who happened to 
be in his train, interpreted this dream as 
meaning that he would take Tyre, since 
" saturos" the Greek for satyr, could be split 
up into " sa Twos" which equals " Tyre is 
thine." Encouraged by the dream, Alexander 
pressed the siege with great vigour, and quickly 
took the town. This example is a yery neat 
illustration of Freud's theory, and also shows 
the play -upon words which is so frequent a 
way in which wish-fulfilments are symbolized. 
Freud has himself remarked upon the fact 
that most of our " dream-books," which are 
still popular among the ignorant at the present 
day, are translations from Eastern writings, 
where the interpretation of dreams was mainly 
a matter of verbal similarity. Of course, these 
verbal similarities and analogies lose their 
force when translated into another tongue, and 
so become merely misleading. 

Freud would explain Maury's dream of the 
guillotine, described earlier in this article, as 
being an entire memory, or rather imagina- 
tion, originating from early life, when the 
stirring history of the French Revolution 
produced a wish to have lived in those times, 
which is aroused en bloc by the fall of the 
curtain-pole. The hidden wish seized the 
opportunity afforded by this guillotine-like 
stimulus to realize itself as an actual incident 
of Maury's life. That the wish culminated 
in a tragedy does not necessarily make the 
explanation a far-fetched one. 

The wish to continue sleeping is the cause 
of many dreams. A medical student, who 
was very fond of his bed, was one morning 
called by his landlady: " Mr. Pepi, get up; 
you must go to the hospital ! " Thereupon 
the sleeper proceeded to dream of a ward in 
the hospital, where he lay on a bed, with a 
card over his head containing the legend: 
" Pepi, H., medical student, twenty -two 
years." He said to himself in his dream : 
" Since I am already in the hospital, I don't 
need to go there," turned over, and continued 
his sleep. 

A similar explanation will partly account 
for the following dream. A father has lost 

his dearly-loved child. The open coffin is in 
a room adjoining the father's bedroom, 
lighted candles are placed near it, and an old 
man watches during the night while the father 
snatches a few hours' much-needed sleep. 
The latter dreams that his little son stands at 
his side and cries reproachfully : " Don't you 
see, father, that I am burning ? " , Waking 
up, he sees through the half-open door the old 
man asleep and one of the candles fallen and 
burning the arm of his boy. We may sup- 
pose that the light of the conflagration, 
striking on the father's half-closed eyes, 
served as the stimulus to produce a dream 
realizing his heartrending wish to see his 
child alive once more. Combined with this 
desire is the wish to continue dreaming, that 
he may still enjoy its bitter sweetness. That 
the child in the dream complains of burning 
shows that the father correctly inferred in 
his sleep that the light seen was due to burn- 
ing of the winding-sheet. Instead of awaking 
immediately, the dream comes as a fulfilment 
of the two wishes just mentioned. 

Dreams, like the poor, are always with us, 
and it should not be difficult for my readers 
to test the truth of Freud's theory from 
their own manifold experiences. They will 
find that the method of psycho-analysis, when 
applied to their dreams, throws light upon 
springs of action in their character which 
would otherwise have remained hidden in 

Of the dreams not to be explained by this 
theory, some would seem to be entirely 
meaningless, an obscure jumble of memories, 
often unpleasant, aroused by disturbances 
of digestion, etc. ; others, such as those of 
falling from a height, going into water, etc., 
are derived from experiences of earliest child- 
hood ; and, finally, some are not to be ex- 
plained without the assumption of telepathic 
communication between the mind of the 
dreamer and some other outside mind. 
Examples of the last are to be found in great 
numbers in the Proceedings of the Society 
for Psychical Research, and several good ones 
in F. W. H. Myers's well-known book; and, 
in my own view at least, many, if not all of 
them, make the view of telepathic communica- 
tion between minds during sleep unavoidable. 
Whether dreams ever make it possible for 
one to look into the future is too difficult a 
question to consider here. 

So far as the future is contained in the 
past, such prophetic dreams are, of course, 
conceivable, even on the lines of the strictest 
materialism, --To I speculate farther would be 
to step beyond the bounds of science. 

UP? I k* LnlA I T 



Tbe Experience of a Millionaire in Search of Sincerity. 


Illustrated by W. R. S- Stott. 

IGAR, please, Belton." 
Ragan bent over the box 
his man brought him. 

" The last of the dandies, 
eh, Belton ? " he said, look- 
ing up at the valet. " Let's 
hope it's a case of the sur- 
vival — until now — of the fittest." His lips 
twitched as he noted the uncomfortable look 
on Belton's impassive face. 

" You instructed me to order no more, 
sir," said the man, a faint protest in his 

" Yes." Ragan nodded, pensively sur- 
veying the solitary Havana that remained 
in the box. " Belton, the loneliest, most 
stranded, down-and-out-looking thing in the 
whole world is the last cigar of the box. 
Make a note of that for your book." 

" My book, sir ? " Belton looked puzzled. 

" Yes. Aren't you writing a book ? " 

" Book, sir S Certainly not, sir," remon- 
strated the valet, apparently shocked. 

" Oh, I thought perhaps you were. You 
ought to — I could provide you with some 

Ragan looked again at the cigar and shook 
his head. " I won't smoke it — that poor 
little, lonely survivor, Belton. I'll have a 
cigarette. So you are not writing a book ? 
Do you do any journalism ? " 

" Journalism, sir ? No, never, sir " — very 
emphatically, as though resenting the accusa- 

" Ah, that's a pity. How about the 
market ? Ever do anything with stock — 
shares, you know ? " 

Belton shook his head, a puzzled look in 
his eyes. " No, sir — of course not, sir." 

Ragan sighed. 

" Well, you are going to lose an oppor- 
tunity of making a haul to-day." 

Belton looked sorry. He was not the only 
man in the world, by some thousands, who 
believed what Ragan said when Ragan spoke 
about money. 

" The fact is, Belton," said Ragan, slowly, 
as though relishing every word — " the fact 
is, I'm ruined." 

Vol xlv.-IO. 

by LiOOglC 

Belton deftly concealed a sudden smile. 

" Indeed, sir ! " he said, politely, mani- 
festly believing that his master was joking. 
Ragan looked at him curiously. 

" You don't believe it, Belton ? " he asked. 

The valet hesitated for a second only. 

" Well, sir," he said, " it does seem a little 
bit far-fetched, sir." His smile refused to be 
concealed — it became almost a grin. The 
idea of Ragan being ruined was really 
amusing. Ragan, the multi-millionaire, the 
Petrol Potentate ! No wonder Belton 

" Far-fetched, hey ? " said Ragan, a new, 
grim reflection in his voice. " You'll see. 
If I pay twenty shillings in the pound when 
my affairs are straightened out, Belton, 
there are men in the City of London — yes, 
and New York and Paris and Berlin, too — 
who will weep tears of joy ! " 

Belton's face changed suddenly. He knew 
when Ragan was serious. He turned very 
white and sat down suddenly. 

" Beg pardon, Mr. Charles," he apologized. 
" My knees went queer — seemed to give out, 
kind of. This is a great shock to me, sir." 
The man was literally trembling. " I — I 
can't quite imagine it. Ruined ! What 
are you going to do about it, sir ? " 

" Do about it, Belton ? Oh, I've got 
thousands of friends — thousands. I'm going 
to rely on them to lend me a hand, to start 
me afresh. One isn't too old at thirty-five. 
It will be all right." 

Uneasiness settled on the valet's face. 

" Yes, sir," he said. But it was a question 
rather than a concurrence. 

" Don't you think so, Belton ? Don't 
you think my friends — lots of 'em are men I 
made — dragged 'em out of naked poverty, 
Belton — you don't mean that you think they 
won't help me, do you ? " 

Belton was silent, his eyes on the white 
cloth on the breakfast-table. Ragan was 
smiling — rather tensely. 

" You don't think they'll help, eh, Belton ? 
What's the matter with you ? Say what 
you think." 

"Very good, jinal fiEhtfi valet raised his 




head suddenly, and looked his master 
squarely in the eyes. " You ask me a plain 
question and give me leave to give a plain - 
answer, sir. Well, then, I don't believe that 
out of the hundreds of money-grabbing time- 
servers and spongers and lying flatterers that 
have lived on you for years you'll find six- 
real friends now that you need 'em. That's 
my opinion, sir. And, Mr. Charles, I know 
what I'm talking about." 

Ragan's face was very serious. 

" I say, Belton, aren't you exaggerating a 
bit ? There are plenty of people who have 
come to this flat and cried — cried like chil- 
dren — about money, and have begged for a 
chance to do something to show their grati- 
tude when I've helped them. Why, man, 
you've seen a lot of it for yourself. You've 
grown cynical, that's what's wrong." 

Belton stood up. 

" Very good, Mr. Charles," he said. " I 
hope you're right." He began mechanically 
to clear up the breakfast-table, then stopped 

" Mr. Charles," he said, flushing, " if things 
have gone kind of rocky in the City, I know 
you well enough to know that you'll soon 
master 'em again, without much help from 
any friends. If — what I mean to say — well, 

sir — it sounds ridiculous — I've " He 


Ragan looked at him almost hungrily. 

" Come on, Belton," he said. " Out with 

" Well, sir, I've managed to put by a few 
hundred quid — pounds, sir. About seven 
hundred. If you'd like to take that as a 
loan, sir, I would be proud. I — I— believe 
in you, sir," stammered the man. It was 
the first time Ragan had ever seen Belton 
perturbed. " I know what you can do, sir — 
and I've had a good deal from you above my 

Ragan smiled. There was relief in his 
eyes — relief and something very friendly. 
He held out his hand. 

" Shake hands, Belton," he said. " I've 
got one friend, anyhow. Leave that money 
where it is for a time, though. There are a 
lot of people in this town who owe me more 
than you da I'll give them a chance first. 
But you're a white man, and I'm hoping to 
find some more of the same colour. Are the 
newspapers here ? " 

Belton brought them in, and Ragan opened 
one — a morning paper with a mighty circu- 

" Ah ! They are on to it ! " he snapped, 
sharply, and pointed to a flaring headline. 



Mr. Charles Ragan, 

The Petrol Prince. 

John D. Rockefeller's 

European Rival 

In Liquidation. 

Belton craned over hjs shoulder, staring 
with horrified eyes at the announcement. 

Then an electric bell somewhere outside 
the room purred long and insistently. 

Ragan put down the paper. 

" That's the first of the crowd who'll want 
me to settle out of hand, Belton. You'll 
get scores to-day. Stave 'em off — stave 'em 
off ! Refer them to Mr. Griffiths, my 
solicitor," he said, a remote excitement in 
his voice. 

Belton 's face hardened as he went out. 

Left alone, Ragan laughed softly. 

" Now we shall see — just what sort of 
friends I've got," he murmured. A momen- 
tary cloud shadowed his keen, clean-shaven, 
good-looking face. 

" If Belton's right " he said, then 

shrugged. " Impossible," he added. " Why, 
he gave himself away." He smiled as he 
thought of Belton's savings — but there was 
no mockery in the smile. He felt very 
friendly towards the valet, who had taken 
the news so hard. 

And that was good for Belton — better than 
Belton dreamed. 

For Ragan stood there worth a clear two 
and a half millions if he was worth a penny 
— and never a soul in the world but Ragan 
and one lawyer knew it. 

It had been the work of a year — delicate, 
tortuous, very skilful manipulation — this 
quiet " getting out " with two and a half 
millions. And the cost had been vast. 
There is no more sensitive organization in 
the world than the money market, and, at 
his zenith, no financier was more carefully 
watched than Charles Ragan. But for all 
that he had successfully effected the with- 
drawal from the money whirlpool of the huge, 
cumbrous amount and its quiet investment 
in steady national — of many nations — 
securities, without the knowledge of his 
financial foes and allies, and, cleverer still, 
without seriously harming anyone's interests. 
This done, there remained a long labour of 
bringing himself to the verge of ruin — in the 
public eye — so that he could fall alone, 
leaving safe all his associates, from the noble 
chairmen of the companies he had built up 
and dominated to the office-boys thereof. 




And now that, too, was done. And nobody 
but his lawyer and himself knew the colossal 
ingenuity the doing had involved* 

That he had been successful the headlines 
of the morning newspapers screamed at him. 

He stood there , staring absently at the 
heavy type, wondering if he had been wise, 
The sound of Belton at issue with many 
callers fell upon his ears, and he smiled doubt- 
fully. He wondered at the sudden loss of 
confidence. He had not felt like this when 

Griffiths had laughed and dryly told him 
that no man but a bankrupt was really quali- 
fied to be a judge of gratitude. 

He had thought that over. One man, 
even , he had asked— a man whom he had 


the idea had first come to him a year ago. 
Then it had seemed to him that there was no 
doubt at all that many people were his friends 
because they liked him 3 and not merely 
because the cords of simple, unselfish friend- 
ship were, in so many cases, supplemented 
— or should be — by the chains of gratitude, 
He had said so to Griffiths, his lawyer, and 

just lifted out of the slough of ruin and put in 
train to fight his way to prosperity. " You 
say you are grateful. What would you do 
if I went right to the other end — smashed — 
and came to you for help ? " 

Folding his cheque, the man had said : — 
" You would see, Mr, Ragan/' and his 
voice had trembled- " Fm not one of the 


9 2 


talkers — but you would see. All I had 
would be yours, at least." 

And the man had believed he was speak- 
ing the truth. 

This was to be Ragan's holiday and voyage 
of discovery. He had had enough of money- 
making, anyway — he wanted to retire — and 
so he had arranged it. He intended to 
retire, not as a raider retiring full-flushed 
with spoil from some stronghold of Mammon, 
but as a failure — a seeker for help, a searcher 
for material gratitude. 

Griffiths, when the plan was explained, had 
said : " All you will discover is that the 
world is governed by self-interest. Don't 
do it, Ragan. You stand to lose more than 
you can gain. You think you have hosts of 
friends. Keep on thinking it. But, for 
Heaven's sake, don't test them." 

Well — now Ragan would see for himself. 

First, however, he must call at the Lee- 
Knightons. There, at any rate, he was sure 
of his reception. It would put him in good 
heart for the disappointments that — accord- 
ing to Griffiths and Belton — awaited him. 
Sir John — another who owed all his present 
prosperity to Ragan — he knew, would help 
him. Lady Lee-Knighton's liking for him, 
he believed, was proof against adversity, and 
Clare — was Clare ? The only reason Clare and 
he were not yet formally betrothed, it was 
tacitly understood, was because she was a 
month or so too young. In two months she 
would be nineteen, when, her mother had 
encouraged Ragan to believe, everything 
could be formally arranged. Yes, Ragan 
was sure of his friends in that house. 

So he went there — not in his big limousine, 
nor his electric runabout, nor his silver-grey 
Rolls-Royce touring-car, for all these were 
now held up by the liquidators, acting for 
yesterday's first flurried meeting of creditors. 
He went on foot. 

At the end of the street he came face to 
face with.Fitzlough — Major Fitzlough. 

The Major was hurrying but at sight of 
Ragan he stopped abruptly, his fat, red face 
becoming radiant and a curious glitter flash- 
ing into his pale, quick, rather cruel-looking 

. " Charles Ragan on foot ! " he said, play- 
fully, in his metallic voice. " The man of 
many motors ! Wonderful ! " He laughed 
a jolly laugh. " I was hurrying to catch 
you before you went to the City, Charlie, my 

The Major was one of those bluff, breezy, 
" old uncle " men who " my boy'd " every- 
body. An adventurer, if ever there was one, 

whose happy hunting-ground was the fringe 
of good society. A bear — or rather cub- 
leader, a tuft-hunter. " I like a lord, and 
I'm not ashamed of it, my boy — why should 
I be, hey ? " An extraordinarily fine bridge- 
player, equally good at billiards, habitui of 
all the best paddocks and grand stands, he 
knew more than a little of the City. But, 
apparently, he had not read his paper yet 
that morning. 

He shook hands. 

" Charles, my boy, I need two ponies for 
two days precisely," he began — as he had 
often begun before, but Ragan interrupted 
him. A newsboy came racing past, hoarsely 
hawking the early sporting edition of an 
" evening " paper, and Ragan beckoned him. 
The Major watched. 

Ragan bought and opened a paper and 
directed Fitzlough's attention to a column 
dealing with himself. 

The breezy old soldier gasped, turned 
purple, and then the colour faded, leaving 
his cheeks unwholesomely mottled. 

" Great Scot, Ragan ! " he s«d. He owed 
Ragan between two and three hundred 
pounds — loans snatched* deftly at the right 
instant. All the bluff' heartiness was gone 
— the man's eyes had harcfened and the 
remotely predatory gleam in them had died 
out. They reflected nothing but the spirit 
of defence, of wariness, now. The Major 
was on guard — this looked as though he 
might be called upon to refund those airy 
loans ! 

" What does this mean, Ragan ? " he asked. 

Ragan shrugged his shoulders. 

" Smash," he said, curtly, reading the man 
like print. 

Major Fitzlough gave him back the paper. 

."I'm sorry — upset. This is a great shock. 
I'm upset — it is terrible ! " 

He fixed his glossy silk hat more firmly on 
his head, glancing round sharply. He was 
not sure that it was going to do him any good 
to be seen chatting with this ruined stock- 

" I sympathize deeply — deeply, Ragan. 
Is it irretrievable ? " 

" Quite." Ragan's skin crawled with 

The Major made as though to move on. 

" Terrible — terrible ! " he said, and took a 
step forward. " See you at the club later." 

Ragan let him go without answering. He 
knew that the man was thanking his gods 
that he had never given any written acknow- 
ledgment of those loans, which he would 

""M^MfefT ,0 repay - 



Ragan shrugged and resumed his walk. 
He had known what the Major was long 
enough ago ; he had never expected the 
money back. The man was little more than 
a jackal with a careful air of bluff breeziness. 
London is stiff with them. 

Ragan had not even paid him the compli- 
ment of marking him off as one of those 
whom he should " test." He had merely 
pitied him before ; now he just despised him. 

" What can you expect from a wolf but a 
bite ? " said Ragan, gaily, and continued his 
way to the Lee-Knightons. 

A motor-car was standing outside, the 
house when he arrived — a long, low, yellow 
car, which he rec%aized at once. It belonged 
to young Hugo Wallhurst, son of Wallhurst, 
the coal baron. 

Something stirred slowly in his heart as he 
recognized the car. Nine o'clock in the 
morning is a very unusual hour at which 
to call upon anyone. But Ragan had a 
reason for calling. What reason had young 
Wallhurst ? He knew that the boy was a 
worshipper of Clare Lee-Knighton. 

Then he laughed again. It was too fanciful 
to imagine that Wallhurst had called for any 
reason connected with him. And yet he was 
too quick to fail to see that if Wallhurst were 
desperate for Clare, and if the newspapers 
were right, now was his chance, if ever. 

But it was a slender chance, for it was 
Ragan's intention to explain to the Lee- 
Knightons his real position and his scheme 
of " exploration " for the next few months. 
That was why he was calling so early — to 
allay the effect of the newspapers. It was 
due to them, at least. He had decided that 
on the previous evening. With a certain 
uneasiness it had occurred to him that 
perhaps it would have been in better taste to 
have taken them into his confidence before. 

That the news had spread throughout the 
house he saw in the first glance at the man 
who opened the door in response to his ring. 

But he had little opportunity of observing 
the manservant, for as the door closed Lady 
Lee-Knighton came into the hall. 

She started at sight of Ragan, and it seemed 
to him her rather florid face paled a little. 
For a fraction of time — so minute as to be 
barely perceptible — she hesitated. Then she 
came to him smiling. But her eyes were 
strange. They were cold and hard and wary. 
So changed were they from the ordinary that 
it seemed to Ragan almost as though she 
were some other woman — a stranger. 

Then she shook hands, and began to talk 

swift "'- Dig,.iz«J by G00gk 

" Good morning," she said. " You are our 
second early caller. Mr. Wallhurst came a 
little while ago. There must be something 
in the air this morning ; no one wants to go 
to the City. Sir John refused point-blank to 
go ; it was too fine for work;* We are going 
motoring. I haven't even had energy enough 
to look at the papers this morning. It is too 
hot to read, or even pretend to." 

Ragan was turning cold. The insincerity 
of the woman was too obvious. It was 
blatant — in her fixed smile, her cold eyes, her 
high, hurried voice, the abrupt, nervous 
movements of her hands. She hastened on. 

" Besides, we have had something more to 
think about, Mr. Ragan." She nodded with 
a horrible archness. " A surprise. Clare and 
Hugo Wallhurst. It seems that they have — 
had an understanding — between themselves 
— for months past. Clare hinted at something 
of the kind last night, and this morning 
Hugo called and they came to us together. 
It was pretty ; not, perhaps, quite what her 
father and I had planned for Clare. But 
what were we to do ? They adore each other. 
So — it is arranged." 

She stopped with almost a gasp of relief ; 
she had got it out before Ragan explained. 
There was fear in her eyes — both fear and 
relief. She stared at Ragan, palpitating. 

Very calm, diamond hard, Ragan spoke. 

" Ah, I see," he said. " You have not - 
yet looked at this morning's papers, Lady 
Lee- Knighton ? " 

"No," Her hands trembled faintly. "Why, 
do you ask ? " 

Ragan smiled. He knew she lied, and he 
guessed at the frenzied secret haste with 
which she must have made her plans for Clare 
and Wallhurst before he (Ragan) arrived. 
Something in his heart was icy-cold, but he 
remained self-possessed. 

" This is the art of — diplomacy, is it not ? " 
he said. 

The bitter contempt in his eyes stung her 
suddenly. She could have screamed at him. 
But she controlled herself, and, tensely low- 
voiced, gave him the truth. 

" It is," she said. " Will you combat it ? " 

She glanced round. No one was within 
hearing, and quite suddenly she gave herself 
up to the luxury of anger and the vicious 
frankness of anger. 

" It i*5," she repeated. " You have been a 
millionaire so long that you have become 
arrogant, contemptuous of appearances. But 
we are not. The world is looking on always, 
and only millionaires can afford to forget it 
— millionaires and pauper?. Since you insist, 





I will tell you that I did see the papers very 
early this morning, and I saw that you were 
ruined. Well, was I to throw my daughter 
into the morass with you ? You expect a 
great deal too much if you expect that. 
What reason was there ? Perhaps you think 
that because you helped my husband when he 
needed help you arc entitled to claim Clare, 
You are wrong, Mr. Kagan. Financial 
matters are for the City* See my husband 
there, and adjust your claims on his gratitude 
there. Clare's future is in my province. I 
will deal with it according to my own judg- 
ment. You affect contempt because I try to 

arrange that people 
should understand 
Clare and Hugo were 
affianced before we 
knew of your failure, 
but I do not agree 
that it iscontemptible. 
And you will find few 
people who will.'* She 
half turned away. 

f, And 
Clare? Is she 
content ? n 

A Perfect- 
ly, Claire is 
very sen- 

" Then — 
being — er— 
ruined, and 
ineligible — 
I am dis- 
missed ? M 
Ragan, very 

A stare of 
hatred and 
disdain was 
his only 
reply for a 
m o m e nt, 
Then :— 

" You are 
u nreason- 
able and 
unjust/' she 
said. "I 
will not dis- 
cuss it." 

"You do 
nor deny 
that solely by my hdp your husband has 
climbed from the verge *f ruin to compara- 
tive wealth? " he asked. il Why do you hate 
me so ? " 

She shook her head, like one suddenly 

" I will tell you, You hate me now 
because you are treating me badly/ 1 

" If it affords you any satisfaction to think 
that, do so," she said, and left him, Ragan 
stared round, a little dazed, for a second. 

** Why, 1 thought she liked me- — she and Sir 
John— and that Clare loved me ! " he said, 
weakly. He recovered himself immediately 




and the butler let him out. He walked back 
slowly to his flat, thinking desperately. 

He saw now, with extraordinary clearness, 
that either he was completely out of touch 
with the ordinary, everyday outlook of the 
world, or that the Lee-Knightons were 
unusually worthless people. Why, they had 
acted as he had read of people acting with a 
leper — they fled at sight. 

He was still thinking vaguely when he 
arrived at his flat. " 

On the stairs Griffiths, the lawyer, pale 
and worried, was standing. He was a young 
man and faithful to Ragan. 

They went in together. 

" What is it ? " asked Ragan. 

The eyes of the other man looked keenly 
at the millionaire. 

" Why, they've started on you already ! " 
he said, rather shrilly. " Heavens ! isn't 
there any decency left in the world ? " He 
recovered himself, sat down close to Ragan, 
and began to speak very earnestly. 

" I hope they have hit you hard," he said, 
and his tone was bitter. " Hard enough for 
you to see the folly of this thing — and to 
stop it. Man, you must. They've been at 
me, too — vultures ! Ragan, I've heard men 
— small men, little men — say things this 
morning that would make you ill. For the 
sake of the money — quite small sums, some 
of them — you owe them. You don't know — 
can't guess. Some of them are like wolves — 
fighting, almost, over priority of claims. 
Afraid, too. I've seen things before — queer, 
shady things — but I've never seen such abso- 
lute frank greediness — inconsideration — in my 
life as some ' friends ' t)f yours have shown 
this morning. You see, they all thought 
you were as safe as the Bank of England. 
They relied on your accounts — and the 
idea of any chance of losing them simply 
scares them cold — sets them on edge. They 
were too nervous to believe me when I told 
'em you'd pay twenty shillings in the pound." 
He paused a moment. Then he continued, 
flatly : " Ragan, you'll have to give up your 
idea. It stirs things up too much — horrible 
things. The world is — what we've made it. 
Call it a pool with clear water on top, and the 
poisonous bad things sunk to the bottom. 
Agitate the pool, and all those bad things 
come to the top. See what I mean ? The 
driving force is Self-interest — all the rest is 
the nickel and the shiny part of the life 
machine. It's all right — good enough for 
people who haven't been intelligent enough 
to build a better machine — all right as long 
as you don't touch the source of the power — 

the driving force. That disturbs the machine. 
Heavens, what a world we've made of it !." 
The phrase seemed wrung out of him. He 
pointed to Ragan with a shaking forefinger. 

" And you — what do you stand to get out 
of it all ? Let me tell you. A broken heart, 
a shattered faith, a soured outlook. You 
want to go out to discover sincerity, gratitude. 
But you will only discover greed ! " He shook 
his head nervously as Ragan opened his lips. 

" I know — I know ; there are cases here 
and there — here and there — of sincere kind- 
ness, sympathy, little friendly things — lots of 
them, if you like ; but you won't find them 
in the places where you propose to look. 
Man, in one hour this morning I've heard a 
dozen men who I thought were your friends 
talk as though they hated youy for fear of 
their little money ; and many pf them have 
practically lived on you — your business — for 
years. You must let the thing go — end it. 
You have all you can expect, even one or 
two real friends. The rest are nothing — 
acquaintances — friends until you test them." 

Ragan thought for a long time, very still, 
very white. 

" I believe you've had enough of it 
already," said Griffiths. 

" Enough ? Enough ? " Ragan rose sud- 
denly, his face hard and twisted. " They've 
broken me already. Enough ? " 

A light of understanding rose in the 
solicitor's eyes. 

" You don't mean the Lee-Knightons — 
already ? " he said. 

Ragan nodded. 

" Certainly the parents, but I can't believe 
yet that Clare would " 

He hesitated. Before he could i^tiish the 
door opened and a girl came in. 

" Miss Lee-Knighton," announced Belton, 

She came straight to Ragan, arms out, eyes 
wide, unfaltering. Never had he seen her so 
beautiful, nor loved her more. 

" They told me a thousand things — 
terrible," she said. " Mother sent for Hugo 
Wallhurst. I tried to do what they said, 
but I couldn't — I couldn't ! How could 
I " 

Ragan took her, hungrily, his eyes vic- 
torious. She was crying, and clung to him 
like a child, a little tired child. 

Petting her, Ragan understood. They had 
done all they could to dissuade her — the 
pitiless-eyed mother, the suave and skilful 
father, the elders. And they had failed to 
keep her. She had won to him — just. For 
she was young, and she loved him ; and so 





she had conquered the world — the world as 
her parents focused it for her, 

Ragan 's problem was solved. 

It was youth — fearless, careless , uncon- 
strained—that kept the world sweet ; youth 
and love j the key of youth- He had wondered 
what was wrong with the world. Now he 
knew. Nothing was wrong except that men 
and women grow old — old and hard and 

Over the bowed head of the girl Ragan 
nodded to Griffiths* 

" End it," he said. 

by Google 

Griffiths smiled and went. The great 
experiment was over before it had well 

Ragan lifted the girl's face, 

*' Listen j dear," he said, M You have done 
nothing wrong, You have done everything 
right for you and for me, and nothing wrong 
for your peopled 

And he told her of the millions he had kept, 
and they went together to tell the mother and 
the father, w r ho t at middle age, nevertheless 
were grown so old, so old, that they thought 
the millions were all that mattered* 

Original from 

Tke Nature and Nurture of Beauty. 

Do Pretty Children Grow Up Good-Looking ? 
How Mothers Can Influence Their Children s Looks. 


HE saying that beauty 
is only skin - deep/' said 
Herbert Spencer, " is only 
a skin - deep saying " ; and 
since the fact is that beauty 
goes as deep as the mind 
(however deep that may be), 
it is worth our while to study its nature and 
nurture. First of all a few words as to what 
we cannot help, and then much more as to 
what we can. 

Beauty has foundations in " nature," or 
heredity, which are beyond our control in 
any given child. What we commonly call 
the " upper classes " in this country are 
certainly the better-looking classes, and, 
though this partly depends upon the nurture 
of their beauty, it largely depends upon the 
fact that men of position and wealth have 
for generations been able to choose beauty 
in their brides, and have assuredly done so. 
Hence the type of beauty which we see at 
Lord's when the 'Varsities or Eton and Harrow 
are playing each other. It is largely the 
product of what we may call aesthetic selec- 
tion, and its results are inimitable by any 
other process. As a Eugenist I am interested 
to imagine what sort of an aristocracy we 
might have if ever men found brains . as 
attractive as beauty, which notoriously 
" draws us by a single hair " ; but that will 
probably not be until " Doomsday in the 
afternoon/' and we need not speculate about 
it here, especially since there are more 
valuable things than even brains. 

Now, everything that is natural does not 
appear at birth — for instance, a man's beard, 
which he inherits, but which takes many- 
years to appear. We change from year to 
year as w r e are predestined to, and the question 
arises, Do beautiful children become beautiful 
adults ? Or is there no particular connection 
between beauty in childhood and in adult 
life ? Undoubtedly there is a connection, 
but it needs very careful statement unless 
we are to go wrong. The beautiful child is 
more likely than the plain one to be beautiful 

VoL xlv.— n. 

Digitized by LrOOgle 

in adult life, but there are many conditions 
to note on both sides. Illustrations of beauty 
which was unmistakable in childhood and in 
later life can be seen on the pages of this 
article, but "there are others" which would 
tell another tale. 

Firstly, let no parent despair of a plain 
child/ Beauty, so far from being " skin- 
deep," largely depends upon the proportion 
between the different parts of the face, and 
this depends upon their rate of growth. 
Before a boy's voice breaks he may have a 
very defective chin, a serious blemish for our 
ideal of manly beauty. But that chin may 
be destined to grow, just when the boy's 
beard begins to grow, and may transform him. 
I saw the other day an old school-fellow whom 
I could scarcely recognize, so vastly improved 
was he, since his young boyhood, by the 
acquisition of that chin which anatomists 
tell us is a peculiarity (and therefore a 
beauty !) of our species. Robert Southey 
was described by his nurse asa a great ugly 
boy v when he was born, but he grew to be 
so handsome that Byron said he would be 
almost content to father Southey's poetry if 
he might have its author's head and shoulders. 
I cannot say what percentage of ugly children 
turn out handsome later in life, but certainly 
many, do, partly because in earlier life the 
various parts of the face have developed at 
somewhat unequal rates, and partly because 
of the influence of another factor of beauty, 
in which Southey was rich, and of which we 
shall have more to say later on. Its old- 
fashioned but familiar name is the soul. 

Least of all let young mothers be perturbed 
by the appearance of their children in early 
infancy. It is not fair to judge any baby 
by our standards. The muscles of the face 
have had no exercise, the bones underneath 
them are only half-formed, the mouth is 
bound to be meaningless — a hideous feature 
when seen in adult life — and the face is still 
a mere mask, with no mind animating it. 
A very short time will work wonders, and we 
have all seen children who were painfully 
Original from 




The queen of Spain. 

The mouth i* notably iimilar at botK ages, 

Frvm, a /ViatoprajA by Hughes ± Muiiin*. Fratn a phutngrnptt by Pratuea, Madrid. 

plain at birth develop into eloquent beauty 
when they were only three years old. 

So much by way of hope for the parents of 
the plain child ; but there is much more to 
say of warning for the parents of the beautiful 
child. They may fondly suppose that all is 
well, and that they are called upon for nothing 
more than gratitude. Far too many instances 
exist to prove the contrary. As in a thou- 
sand other cases, the simple rule here is that, 
while we cannot create beauty , we can readily 
destroy it. Just similarly, we cannot prolong 
our lives beyond the *' allotted span/' but 
we can shorten them, and nearly all of us do. 
As has been said, the beauty which comes 
" by nature " — like reading and writing, 
according to Dogberry — is inimitable, but 
nothing is more easily destructible, and there 
are more ways than one of compassing its 
rub. Fond parents and nurses practise not 
a few, and the unwise heir or heiress of 
beauty often practises the rest. The truth is 
that Dogberry, who was always wrong, was 
never more so than when he said, " To be a 
well-favoured man is the gift of Fortune." 

Thus, if anything matters for beauty, the 
shape of the jaws does. A mark of our 
species is that, among the higher races, the 
profile of the jaws is nearly vertical, instead 

of protruding, as in apes, for instance, or in 
the lower types of Men. To have the jaws 
ortkognalhous, instead of prognathous, is an 
absolute essential of beauty as we understand 
it. But a protrusive deformity of the upper 
jaw, at any rate, can be readily cultivated in 
any child by the use of the dangerous and 
objectionable abomination called a comforter. 
Hosts of ugly mouths, which we see on all 
sides 3 owe their origin to this instrument. 
Illustrations of its action are absent from our 
pages, for reasons obvious enough. The child 
was born with well-formed jaws and palate, 
of the type characteristic of our race. But 
the constant reflex sucking of a comforter, 
sometimes almost without intermission by 
day or by night, causes a forward growth, 
especially of the upper jaw, which spoils its 
angle, and may even lead the front teeth 
to appear with a forward projection, instead 
of absolutely straight up and down. The 
modern study of the mouth by dental 
surgeons has proved this beyond dispute, 
as could be readily shown if The Strand 
Magazine were the place for ugly diagrams. 
Thus the comforter is condemned, quite 
apart from the possibility of having the 
thing dropped — perhaps upon a filthy station 
platform, as I have <ee^ — and then inserted 




Princess Patricia of connaugmt. 

These photographs show us the un moulded moulk of ike child developed into the delicate, well- 
mouth of the young woman. 

Fyom it PhotuffTtffh by flnyh** A: MuMa*. 

directly into a baby's mouth. No baby needs 
a comforter ; its use is only an excuse for 
idleness and a substitute for proper attention 
to the infant's needs. There is no occasion to 
think of a naturai child as like a youth who has 
to be sucking a cigarette to find life tolerable, 
However, there is something more to say 
about the microbes that may be introduced 
into a child's mouth by a comforter, for they 
may play a part in the production of that 
great enemy of beauty, adenoid growth in 
the nose and throat. Eight per cent, of our 
school children hays adenoids at the present 
time, and if we wanted to be a beautiful 
nation, to say nothing of being a healthy one, 
we should waste no time before removing 
them, a process which only takes about 
ninety seconds. Most of us will agree that 
Jewish children are often remarkable for the 
beauty of their faces, a beauty which depends 
partly upon their expressive eyes and eyelids, 
and partly upon the appearance of intelligence, 
a great factor of beauty, and one in which 
the Jew-ish race is pre-eminently rich. But it 
would be bold to say that adult Jews, on the 
average, are conspicuously beautiful. Too 
often they fail to justify the promise of 
childhood. I speak here of Jews in our cities, 

f-Yom ff Photograph by Lalti* Vhnrte*, 

and not, let us say, of the Jew T in Palestine, 
Now, it is well known to students, and is, 
indeed, recognized in music-hall versions of 
the jew, that he is sadly liable to adenoids, 
and I believe that this single fact may largely 
account for the contrast too often seen 
between the Jewish child and the Jewish adult. 
No one with adenoids can hope to retain 
the beauty which was conditionally promised 
him or her by Nature. All Nature's promises 
are conditional. Thus, if I am asked what 
percentage of plain children may turn out 
beautiful in later life, like Sou they, I do not 
know ; but I am very well sure that the eight 
per cent, of children who do not get their 
adenoids removed must turn out plain, what- 
ever their original possibilities may have been. 
Adenoids sometimes mean deafness, which 
makes one look stupid, and therefore less 
beautiful More frequently they mean liability 
to colds in the head, constantly repeated, 
which spoil the delicate fineness of the eye* 
lids, Worse than this, they mean mouth- 
breathing. The nose swells, perhaps, but, 
though it is higger t it is less useful. The 
child is made plain by the swollen nose and 
the swollen eyelids, but it is made far plainer 
by the cHrtfiiiifi)H^frop©n mouth through 



which it is compelled to breathe* No mouth- 
breather can possihly be beautiful, We were 
not meant to breathe through the mouth, 
and the act looks unnatural and morbid. 
More than that, the moiith is by far the most 
expressive feature of the face ; in every 
sense it is our most speaking feature. But 
if it be necessarily employed for breathing 
through, it can never express anything but 
an unfortunate and unnatural predicament. 
Decision, kindliness, self-control, serenity — 
all these invaluable factors of true beauty 
must fail to show themselves as they should 
in the mouth through which its unfortunate 
owner is compelled to breathe. 

Compared with many Oriental peoples, we 
are a deplorable crew in terms of beauty, 
Mark Twain once forcibly commented on the 
contrast between the faces that pass one in an 
Indian or in an average ^ Anglo-Saxon " city* 
I believe that this contrast is by no means 
entirely due to causes in heredity. Probably 
the crowd at Lord's on a fashionable day 
would be hard to beat for beauty anywhere, 
but you do not find eight per cent* of adenoids 
there. In our northern climes we are specially 
liable to trouble in the organs of respiration 
— cold in the head, adenoids., swollen tonsils j 

and these are specially destructive of beauty. 
Every mother who cares a straw about the 
future beauty of her child will take care that 
it breathes through its nose, as it naturally 
will, if it can. If it cannot* then its nose 
must be properly cleared out, until it can 
do the work for which it was made — work 
vital for more serious matters even than 

But if one mast warn parents against such 
destructors of possible beauty as the com- 
forter and adenoids T what shall be said to 
warn them against neglect of the teeth ? Only 




This shows how the parts of the child's face have grown in varying degree, so that in the young 
(ace the proportions are good and make part of the face's beauty. 

Froma Phot^i-ajth. ?■•</ J, Martin F*9m a Phatoffvnpk hy Rita Martin. 

.- ... ... .QigHiz *J by LjOOglC UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 



lately have we come to realize how large a 
part the state of the teeth plays in our 
personal appearance. Most of us would be 
content to suppose that black or mi ;sing 
front teeth are to be deplored and white ones 
welcomed, but there is much more in it than 
that, Plenty oi foolish people, who would 
consult a dentist for decay in a front tooth , 
will be quite indifferent to the destruction of 
their molars. Parents are constantly guilty 
in this respect, and so are young girls who arc 
really deeply interested in their personal 
appearance, and are perhaps not above 

Miss Ellen Terry, 

Even the younger portrait iliowt the sympathetic, loving mind in eyes and mouth. 

VvMafftr PhtiuQftifh bv Miit tltmd, Unl tip M^4t tlntchinXM it Co. 

applying to their faces a kind of beauty 
which is not even skin-deep. 

Yet what happens if we lose our hack teeth 
in early life ? The chewing must be done 
somehow, and so the front teeth are called 
upon to do it, They were made for biting 
into things, but not for chewing, and when 
we ask them to perform the mastication 
which should have devolved upon our lost 
grinders, they are liable to lose their per- 
pendicularity and begin to protrude. It is 
very nearly all up with beauty now. No 
one likes projecting teeth, and no one should, 
for they are morbid, and an indication that 
something has gone wrong somewhere. Not 

by Google 

only are they ugly in themselves, but they 
are liable to make it difficult to keep the lips 
closed, and the open mouth through which 
projecting teeth appear is an aesthetic disaster. 
Yet if the possessor had not been so foolish 
as to think that back teeth , which are not 
seen, do not matte r> it might have been 

All our teeth are worth having for the sake 
of beauty. If we lose our teeth our jaws, 
which chiefly exist in order to hold them, 
art: bound to atrophy. We see this clearly 
enough in old age. Therefore wt must keep 
all our teeth, and our children's. They must 
be taught to chew properly, with the mouth 
Original from 




Miss Florence smithson. 

Shows the mouth formed by the intelligent mind in the course of years. 
Front a Photograph by T, Btvmwkh. Ff>mi a Pkuionrnph ly Gnttenbcrff, 

shut — which means a clear nose to breathe 
through. They must be given a fair amount 
of food that needs chewing, or tliey cannot 
in reason be expected to chew it. Things 
like raw apples are as attractive to Eve's 
descendants as they were to her, and are 
much more desirable. They are much to be 
preferred as a good-night treat to the chocolate 
which so many fond mothers seem to 
approve of. If the necks of our children J s 
molars go to sleep in the deadly embrace of 
a circle of chocolate, they will not long 
survive that " strangle hold/' and the pro- 
trusion of front teeth will be the next 

This protrusion is not the same thing as 
we see in the prognathous jaw of, say ; a 
negro. If we observe the front teeth in such 
a jaw j we see that they run straight up and 
down. A woman's jaws are normally some- 
what more projecting than a man's, and this 
slightly enhanced conspicuousness of the 
mouth perhaps makes it no less attractive 
to her lover , but the teeth in those jaws 
should run straight up and down ? and directly 
they cease to he vertical her beauty is en- 
dangered, Take care of your back teeth in 
youth j is the moral of these observations. 

No one needs telling to take care of front 

Digitized by LiOOQlC 

teeth, but most mothers are too careless 
about the milk-teeth, supposing that they 
must soon go, and do not matter* Modern 
dentistry takes a different view. After all, 
the permanent teeth must be formed just 
under the temporary ones, and so, if we wish 
our children's permanent teeth to be well- 
formed , regular , and durable — the relevance 
of which to beauty no one will question — 
we should have the wisdom to take care of 
their milk-teeth also, and that is to be done 
less with the active aid of the dentist than by 
means of sensibly chosen food and the habit 
of chewing, with the use of the tooth-brush as a 
useful subsidiary. We should end our meals 
and our children's with food like fruit rather 
than with such things as soft biscuit, if we 
wish to preserve the beauty of the teeth, and 
some of the modern wheat foods which 
require chewing are much to be preferred to 
the preposterously sloppy things which used 
to be so much favoured. Of course children 
should chew their crusts. The old prejudice 
against sugar and sweet things as such is 
unwarranted ; the finest teeth in the world 
are those of the West Indian negro, who is 
chewing sugar-cane all day— but then he is 
chewing it. 
Our stu4y ri ^|^p ro ^pposedly skin-deep 




Lord Lister. 

The eye* and mouth show the ihinker, the searcher, the 

man familiar with tragedy, + " another Herakles, battling 

with death and pain." 

Frvma PhatuQraph bit ttttiattrf- Frp- 

thing called beauty has gone as far back as 
the back teeth and the back of the throat and 
nosej but it has not gone far enough yet. 
The truth is that adult beauty — nay, beauty 
at any age except infancy — depends far more 
than we realize upon the mind and its state. 
Beauty, like youth, is really a state of the 
soul j not of the body. 

It is said that the eyes are the windows 
of the soul, and they are so to some extent. 
The dull person, or the person who will not 
be bothered to be courteous and interested in 
us, shows his native ugliness of mind in the 
immobility of his eyelids. The interested 
person, with a mind which may or may not 
be quick, but is certainly sensitive and 
responsive, has active eyes and eyelids, 
which affect us so pleasantly that they count 
for beauty., as they should. Smiling creases 
the skin round the eyes, and therefore advisers 
are to be found who say that beauty is best 
to be preserved by cultivating an expression- 
less face, so as to 11 voir 1 cnmV tV^t. It is 
poor advice, based on a superficial view of 
beauty which does not work out in practice. 
No one is ever the less beautiful for lines on 
the face — if only they are in the right places. 

Digitized by t^OOQlC 

J. Forbes Robertson. 

Cover the mouth, and observe how much the face lows. 

Frum a Pkotaprrtph by flitl&L 

What is true of the eyes is far more true 
of the mouth, an organ so expressive and signi- 
ficant, so capable of richness in beauty, that 
no bearded face can ever have the beauty of 
such a shaven face as shows a beautiful 
mouth. We have only to look at a beautiful 
face of which the mouth is beautiful , and then 
to cloak the lower part of the face with hair, 
in order to see what the mouth counts for 
in our estimation of beauty. 

But the infant's mouth is quite meaningless. 
The truth is that we make our mouths our- 
selves. On the physical side it is essential 
that the child be not allowed to breathe 
through the mouth, that all its teeth be cared 
for, and that the palate be not deformed by a 
" comforter. " But these are only the physical 
preliminaries. The rest we do for ourselves, 
and what we may do it would be only too easy 
to prove by photographs showing how r beauty 
in childhood has been succeeded by plainness 
in maturity. The beauty which counts in the 
long run, and which alone retains its power, is 
beauty of expression, which resides, above all, 
in the mouth and the lines round it. Darwin 
showed long ago, in his great book on " The 
Expression of the Emotions/' that we have 




in our faces various sets of muscles — the 
grief muscles, the anger muscles, and so 
forth — which are used for the expression of 
certain definite emotions, The habitual use 
of these muscles leads to a definite creasing 
of the skin of the face, just as the use of the 
muscles of the palm creases the skin there. 
We all thus draw our own portrait, with 
masterly draughtsmanship, in a few convin- 
cing lines upon the skin of our faces — that 
.skin which is a blank in infancy, and little 
more in childhood. The cruel man, like Nero ; 
the kind man, like Lord Shaftesbury : the 

and the skin round it are little more as yet 
than an untouched canvas* In years to come 
every feature of physical beauty may be 
retained, but the beholder will exact require- 
ments which he does not look for in the 
child. Is that mouth now sullen, selfish, 
kindly, lax, stern, mobile, rigid ? Do the 
corners go up or down ? Are the lines from 
the nostt tc> th<? corners of the mouth those of 
frankness or suspicion, contempt, cunning, or 
charity ? In such questions we discern the 
moral factor of beauty, which makes it a 
worthy subject for any philosopher or poet. 


n the adult ihe angry contraction of the inner ends of the eyebrows „ 

The child's face foreshadows evil lo come, 

the snarling retraction of the upper - lip, and ihe sensual protrusion of the lower, paint with lamentable and 

horrible fidelity the portrait of the monsters mind 

thoughtful man, like John StuarL Mill, register 
their profoundest characteristics in their own 
fares, in lives which any child, and many 
animals, can read. We can all paint one 
portrait as well as Velazquez or Mr, Sargent, 
and that is our own ; we can and we must, 

Here, then, is the unknown but potent 
factor which has to be allowed for when we 
look at the beautiful child, with its regular 
features, its wonderful young skin, the most 
adorable and inimitable tissue under the sky, 
its fresh white teeth, its clear and lustrous 
eyes. All these are good, so far as they go, 
and so long as they last. But the essential 
individual does not yet appear, The mouth 

The parent who is interested in a child's 
beauty will have to reckon with these facts. 
No words can over-estimate their importance. 
In photographs of beautiful children who have 
become beautiful adults it is beauty of expres- 
sion, inexorably limned upon the face, that 
we delight in. The beautiful children who 
have since drawn other portraits of themselves 
need no illustration here ; they are to be met 
everywhere. But this is the beauty to which a 
man returns, never sated; beauty which the 
touch of Time only reveals more clearly, and 
which justifies, in its noblest feminine mani- 
festations, the words of Ruskin, that woman 
was " boroGtidtattftorifible/' 


[J / 




Illustrated by H. R, Millar. 


j| HERE is a piece of waste land 
just beyond Beachfield on the 
least agreeable side of that 
village — the side where the 
flat-faced shops are ? and the 
yellow-brick houses. Here 
also are gaunt hoardings , 
plastered with ugly-coloured posters. Some 
of the corners of the posters are always loose 

Copyright, i$i2, 

and flap dismally in the wind. There is 
always a good deal of straw and torn paper 
and dust at this end of the village, and 
hits of dirty rag, and old boots and tins 
are found under the hedges where flowers 
ought to be. Some people like this, and 
see nothing to hate in such ugly waste 
places as the one, at the wrong end of the 
town, where the fair was being held on that 
never-to-be-forgotten day when Francis, 
Mavis, Bernard , and Kathleen set out, in 
their best clothes, to rescue the mermaid 
because mermaids " die in captivity," 

The fair had none of those stalls and 
booths which old-fashioned fairs used to 
have, where they sold toys and gilt ginger- 
bread and carters' whips and cups and 
saucers and mutton-pies and dolls and 
china dogs and shell boxes and pincushions 
and needle-cases and penholders with views 
of the Isle of Wight and Winchester 
Cathedral inside that you see so bright 
and plain when you put your eye close 
to the little round hole at the top. 

The big tent that held the circus was at 
the top of the ground, and the people who 
were busy among the ropes and pegs and 
between the bright vans resting on their 
shafts seemed payer and cleaner than the 
people who kept the little arrangements for 
people not to win prizes at. It seemed a long 
time before the circus opened, but at last the 
flap of the tent was pinned hack and a gipsy- 
looking woman with oily black ringlets and 
eves like bright black beads came out at the 




side to take the money of those who wished 
to see the circus. Of these our four were the 
very first, and the gipsy woman took the 
warm silver sixpences from Mavis's hand. 

" Walk in, walk in, my little dears, and see 
the white elephant," said a stout, black- 
moustached man in evening dress — greenish 
it was, and shiny about the seams. He 
flourished a long whip as he spoke, and the 
children stopped, although they had paid 
their sixpences, to hear what they were to 
see when they did walk in — " the white 
elephant, tail, trunk, and tusks, all complete, 
sixpence only. Walk up ! walk up ! See 
the trained wolves and wolverines in their 
great national dance with the flags of all 
countries. Walk up ! walk up ! walk up ! 
See the educated seals and the unique Lotus 
of the Heast in her famous bare-backed act, 
riding three horses at once, the wonder 
and envy of Royalty. Walk up and see the 
very-table mermaid, caught on your own 
coast only yesterday as ever was ! " 

" Thank you," said Francis, " I think we 
will." And the four went through the opened 
canvas flap into the pleasant yellow dusty 
twilight which was the inside of a squarish 
sort of tent, with an opening at the end, and 
through it you could see the sawdust-covered 
ring of the circus and benches all round it 
and two men just finishing covering the front 
benches with red cotton strips. 

" Where's the mermaid ? " Mavis asked a 
little boy in tights and a spangled cap. 

" In there," he said, pointing to a little 
canvas door at the side of the squarish tent. 
44 I don't advise you to touch her, though. 
Spiteful, she is. Lashes out with her tail — 
splashed old Mother Lee all over water, she 
did — an' dangerous, too. Our Bill 'e got 'is 
bone set out in his wrist a-trying to hold on 
to her. An' it's thruppence extry to see her 

The children had, fortunately, plenty of 
money, because mother had given them two 
half-crowns between them to spend as they 

" Even then," said Bernard, in allusion to 
the threepence extra, " we shall have two 
bob left. 

So Mavis, who was treasurer, paid over the 
extra threepences to a girl with hair as fair 
and lank as hemp, and a face as brown and 
round as a tea-cake, who sat on a kitchen 
chair by the mermaid's door. Then, one by 
one, they went in through the narrow open- 
ing, and at last there they were alone in the 
little canvas room with a tank in it that held 
— well, there was a large label, evidentlv 

Digitized by G* 

written in a hurry, for the letters were 
badly made and arranged quite crookedly, 
and this label declared : — 


Said to be fabulous, but now true. 

Caught Here. 

Please do not touch. 


The little spangled boy had followed them 
in, and pointed to the last word.^ 

" What I tell you ? " he asked," proudly. 

The children looked at each other. Nothing 
could be done with this witness at hand. At 

14 Perhaps if it's going to be magic," Mavis 
whispered to Francis, " outsiders wouldn't 
notice. They don't sometimes — I believe. 
Suppose you just said a bit of Sabrina to start 
the magic ? " 

" Wouldn't be safe," Francis returned, in 
the same low tones. " Suppose he wasn't an 
outsider, and did notice ? " 

So there they stood helpless. What the 
label was hung on was a large zinc tank — the 
kind that they have at the tops of houses for 
the water supply. The tank was full of 
water, and at the bottom of it could be seen 
a mass of something dark that looked as if it 
were partly browny-green fish and partly 
greeny-brown seaweed. 

" Sabrina fair," Francis suddenly whispered, 
" send him away." 

And immediately a voice from outside 
called " Rube ! Reuben ! Drat the boy ! 
where's he got to ? " and the little spangled 
intruder had to go. 

" There, now," said Mavis, " if that isn't 
magic ! " 

Perhaps it was — but still the dark fish-and- 
seaweed heap in the tank had not stirred. 

" Say it all through," said Mavis. 

" Yes, do," said Bernard ; " then we shall 
know for certain whether it's a seal or not." 

So once again — 

Sabrina fair, 

Listen where thou art sitting 

Under the glassy cool translucent wave 

He got no farther. There was a heaving 
and stirring of the seaweed and fish-tail — 
something gleamed white. Through the 
brown something white parted the seaweed — 
two white hands parted it — and a face came 
to the surface of the rather dirty water and — 
there was no doubt about it — spoke. 

" ' Translucent wave/ indeed ! " was what 
the face said. " I wonder you're not ashamed 
to speak the invocation over a miserable 
cistern like this. What do you want ? " 




Brown hair and seaweed still veiled most 
of the face ? but all the children ? who, after 
their first start hack, had pressed close to the 
tank again j could see that the face looked 
exceedingly cross. 

11 We want/' said Francis, in a voice that 
would tremble, though he told himself again 
and again that he was not a baby and wasn't 
going to behave like one — 4I we want to help 

"Help met You!" She raised herself 
a little more in the tank and looked con- 
temptuously at them* " Why, don't you 
know that I am mistress of all water magic ? 

'* Well j I was thinking about it," she said, 
a little awkwardly j li when you interrupted 
with your spells. Well, you've called and 
I've answered. Now tell me what I can do 
for you," 

11 We've told you/' said Mavis, gently 
enough, though she was frightfully dis- 
appointed that the mermaid, after having in 
the handsomest manner turned out to be a 
mermaid j should be such a very short- 
tempered one, And when they had talked 
about her all day and paid the threepence 
each extra to see. her close, and put on their 
best white dresses too. " We've told you— 


1 can raise a storm that will sweep away this 
horrible place and my detestable captors 
and you with them, and carry me on the back 
of a great wave down to the depths of the 

u Then why on earth don't you ? " Bernard 

" taL Digged tvGoCgl I" 

we want to help you, Another Sabrina in the 
sea told us to. She didn't tell us anything 
about you being a magic-mistress, She just 
said, * They die in captivity.' 

14 Well, thank you for coming,' y said the 
mermaid, " If she really said that, it mast 
be one of two things. Either the sun is in the 
House of Libra — which is impossible at this 
time of the year — or else the rope I was 
caught with must be made of llama's hair — 
and thafs impossible in these latitudes. Do 
you know anything about the rope they caught 
me with ? u 

%1 No." said Bernard and Kathleen, But 
the others said 1:1 gTrftlTfaGBPft lariat." 




" Ah ! " said the mermaid. " My worst 
fears are confirmed- But who could have 
expected a lariat on these shores ? But that 
must have been it. Now I know why, though 
I have been on the point of working the 
Magic of the Great Storm at least five hundred 
times since my capture, some unseen influence 
has always held me back." 

" You mean," said Bernard, " you feel 
that it wouldn't work, so you didn't try." 

A rattling, rippling sound outside, begin- 
ning softly, waxed louder and louder, so as 
almost cO drown their voices. It was the 
drum, and it announced the beginning of the 
circus. The spangled child put his head in 
and said, " Hurry up, or you'll miss my 
Infant Prodigious act on the horse with the 
tambourines," and took his head out again. 

" Oh, dear ! " said Mavis, " and we haven't 
arranged a single thing about rescuing you." 

" No more you have," said the mermaid, 

" Look here," said Francis, " you do want 
to be rescued, don't you ? " 

" Of course I do," replied the mermaid, 
impatiently, " now I know about the llama- 
rope. But I can't walk, even if they'd let 
me, and you couldn't carry me. Couldn't 
you come at dead of night with a chariot — I 
could lift myself into it with your aid — then 
you could drive swiftly hence and drive into 
the sea. I could drop from the chariot and 
escape while you swam ashore." 

44 I don't believe we could — any of it," said 
Bernard ; " let alone swimming ashore with 
horses and chariots. Why, even Pharaoh 
couldn't do that, you know." And even 
Mavis and Francis added, helplessly, " I 
don't see how we're to get a chariot " and 
44 Do think of some other way." 

" I shall await you," said the lady in the 
tank, with perfect calmness, " at dead of 

With that she twisted the seaweed closely 
round her head and shoulders and sank 
slowly to the bottom of the tank. And the 
children were left staring blankly at each 
other, while in the circus-tent music sounded 
and the soft, heavy pad, pad of hoofs on 

" What shall we do ? " Francis broke 
the silence. 

44 Go and see the circus, of course," said 

44 Of course, we can talk about the chariot 
afterwards," Mavis admitted. 

There is nothing like a circus for making 
you forget your anxieties. It is impossible 
to dwell on your troubles and difficulties 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

when performing dogs are displaying their 
accomplishments or wolves dancing their 
celebrated dance with the flags of all nations ; 
and the engaging lady who jumps through 
the paper hoops and comes down miraculously 
on the flat back of the white horse cannot 
but drive dull care away, especially from the 
minds of the young. So that for an hour and 
a half — it really was a good circus, and I can't 
think how it happened to be at Beachfield 
Fair at all — a solid slab of breathless enjoy- 
ment was wedged in between the interview 
with the mermaid and the difficult task of 
procuring for her the chariot she wanted. 
But when it was all over and they were part 
of a hot, tightly-packed crowd pouring out 
of the dusty tent into the sunshine their 
responsibilities came upon them with renewed 

14 Wasn't the clown ripping ? " said Bernard, 
as they got free of the crowd. 

44 I liked the riding-habit lady best," said 

" Didn't you think the elephant " 

Mavis was beginning, when Francis inter- 
rupted her. 

44 About that chariot," he said ; and after 
that they talked of nothing else. And what- 
ever they said, it always came to this in the 
end — that they hadn't got a chariot and 
couldn't get a chariot, and that anyhow they 
didn't suppose there was a chariot to be 
got — in Beachfield, at any rate. 

" It wouldn't be any good, I suppose," was 
Kathleen's last and most helpful suggestion 
— " be the slightest good saying * Sabrina 
fair ' to a pumpkin ? " 

44 We haven't got even a pumpkin," 
Bernard reminded her, 44 let alone the rats 
and mice and lizards that Cinderella had. 
No, that's no good. But I'll tell you what." 
He stopped short. They were near home 
now. 44 What about a wheelbarrow ? " 

44 Not big enough," said Francis. 

44 There's an extra big one in the mill," said 
Bernard. 44 Now look here. I'm not any 
good at magic. But Uncle Tom said I was a 
born general. If I tell you exactly what to 
do, will you two do it, and let Cathay and me 
off going ? " 

44 Going to sneak out of it ? " Francis asked, 

44 It isn't. It's not my game at all — and I 
don't want to play. And if I do the whole 
thing will be muffed — you know it will. I'm 
so unlucky. You'd never get out at dead of 
night without me dropping a boot on the 
stairs or sneezing. You know you wouldn't." 

Bernard took ft lv SOft of melancholy pride 




in being the kind of boy who always gets 
caught. IE you are that sort of boy perhaps 
that's the best way to take it. And Francis 
could not deny that there was something in 
what he said. He went on. " Then Kath- 
leen's my special sister, and I'm not going 
to have her dragged into a row. So will you 
and Mavis do it on your own or not ? " 

After some discussion, in which Kathleen 
was tactfully dealt with, it was agreed that 
they would. Then Bernard unfolded his 
plan of campaign. 

same way. You'd better take a knife to cut 
the canvas, and go by the bark lane that 
comes out behind where the circus is, but 
if you took my advice you wouldn't go. 
She's not a nice mermaid at all. I'd rather 
have had a seal, any day. Halloa ! there's 
daddy and mother. Come on ! " 

They came on. 

The programme sketched by Bernard was 
carried out without a hitch. Everything 
went well— only Francis and Mavis were both 
astonished to find themselves so much more 




-i Directly we get home," he said, " we'll 
begin larking about with that old wheel* 
barrow — giving each other rides, and so on — 
and when it's time to go in well leave it at 
the far end of the field behind the old sheepn 
hut near the gate. Then it'll be handy for 
you at dead of night. You must take towels 
or something to tie round the wheel so that 
it doesn't make a row, You can sleep with 
my toy alarum under your pillow, and it 
won't wake anyone but you. You get out 
through the dining-room window, and i 

frightened than they had expected to be. 
Any really gnat adventure, like the rescuing 
of a mermaid, docs always look so very much 
more serious when you carry it out at night 
than it did when you were planning it in the 
daytime. Also, though they knew they were 
not doing anything wrong, they had an uncom- 
fortable feeling that mother and daddy might 
not agree with them on that point. And of 
course they could not ask leave to go and 
rescue a mermaid with a chariot at dead of 
night. It is odciiilftlfoornof thing you can 




ask, somehow. And the more you explained 
your reasons the less grown-up people would 
think you fitted to conduct such an expe- 

Francis lay down fully dressed under his 
nightshirt. And Mavis, under hers, wore 
her short blue skirt and jersey. 

The alarum, true to its trust, went off with 
an ear-splitting whiz and bang under the 
pillow of Francis, but no one else heard it. 
He crept cautiously into Mavis's room and 
wakened her, and as they crept down in 
stockinged feet not a board creaked. The 
French window opened without noise, the 
wheelbarrow was where they had left it, and 
they had fortunately brought quite enough 
string to bind wads of towels and stockings 
to the tyre of its wheel. Also they had not 
forgotten the knife. 

The wheelbarrow was heavy, and they 
rather shrank from imagining how much 
heavier it would be when the discontented 
mermaid was curled up in it. However, 
they took it in turns, and got along all right 
by the back lane that comes out above the 
waste ground where Beachfield holds its fairs. 

" I hope the night's dead enough," Mavis 
whispered, as the circus came in sight, look- 
ing very white in the starlight. " It's nearly 
two by now, I should think." 

" Quite dead enough, if that's all," said 
Francis ; " but suppose the gipsies are 
awake ? They do sit up to study astronomy 
to tell fortunes with, don't they ? Suppose 
this is their astronomy night ? I vote we 
leave the barrow here and go and reconnoitre." 

They did. Their sand-shoes made no 
noise on the dewy grass, and, treading very 
carefully on tiptoe, they came to the tent. 
Francis nearly tumbled over a guy-rope — 
just saw it in time to avoid it. " If I'd been 
Bernard I should have come a beastly noisy 
cropper over that," he told himself. They 
crept round the tent till they came to the 
little square bulge that marked the place 
where the tank was, and the seaweed and the 

" They die in captivity — they die in cap- 
tivity — they die in captivity," Mavis kept 
repeating to herself, trying to keep up her 
courage by reminding herself of the desper- 
ately urgent nature of the adventure. " It's 
a matter of life and death," she told herself 
— " life and death." 

And now they picked their way between 
the pegs and guy-ropes, and came quite close 
to the canvas. Doubts of the strength and 
silence of the knife possessed the trembling 
soul of Francis. Mavis's heart was, beating 

Digitized byLx* 

so thickly that, as she said afterwards, she 
could hardly hear herself think. She scratched 
gently on the canvas. An answering signal 
from the imprisoned mermaid would, she 
felt, give her fresh confidence. There was no 
answering scratch. Instead, a dark line 
appeared to run up the canvas ; it was an 
opening made by the two hands of the mer- 
maid, which held back the two halves of the 
tent-side — cut neatly from top to bottom. 
Her white face peered out. 

" Where is the chariot ? " she asked, in 
the softest of whispers, but not too soft to 
carry to the children the feeling that she was, 
if possible, crosser than ever. 

Francis was afraid to answer. He knew 
that his voice could never be subdued to any- 
thing as soft as the voice that questioned him 
— a voice like the sound of tiny waves on a 
summer night, like the whisper of wheat 
when the wind passes through it on a summer 
morning. But he pointed towards the lane 
where they had left the wheelbarrow, and 
he and Mavis crept away to fetch it. 

As they wheeled it down the waste place 
both felt how much they owed to Bernard. 
But for his idea of muffling the wheel they 
could never have got the clumsy great thing 
down that bumpy, uneven slope. But as it 
was they and the barrow stole towards the 
gipsy's tent as silently as the Arabs in the 
poem stole away with theirs, and wheeled it 
close to the riven tent-side. Then Mavis 
scratched again, and again the tent opened. 

" Have you any cords ? " the soft voice 
whispered, and Francis pulled what was left 
of the string from his pocket. 

She had made two holes in the tent-side, 
and now, passing the string through these, 
she tied back the flfips of the tent. 

" Now," she said, raising herself in the tank 
and resting her hands on its side. " You 
must both help ; take hold of my tail and 
lift. Creep in — one on each side." 

It was a wet, sloppy, slippery, heavy busi- 
ness, and Mavis thought her arms would 
break — but she kept saying " Die in cap- 
tivity," and just as she was feeling that she 
could not bear it another minute the strain 
slackened, and there was the mermaid curled 
up in the barrow. 

" Now," said the soft voice, " go — quickly." 

It was all very well to say " Go quickly." 
It was as much as the two children could do, 
with that barrow-load of dripping mermaid, 
to go at all. And very, very slowly they 
crept up the waste space. In the lane, 
under cover of the tall hedges, they paused. 

" Go on ! " said the mermaid. 

1 11 1 1 1 ■-• 1 1 1 




M We can't till we're rested a bit," said 
Mavis, panting, " How did you manage to 
get that canvas cut ? " 

•' My shell-knife, of course/ 3 said the person 
in the wheelbarrow. " We always carry 
one in our hair, in case of sharks," 

M I see/' said Francis, 
breathing heavily. 

"You had much 
better go on/' said the 
barrow's occupant. 
M This chariot is exces- 

don't know whether you realize that I'm 
stolen property, and that it will be extremely 
awkward for you if you are caught with me," 

* f But we sh&'n't be caught with you/* 
said Mavis, hopefully. 

" Everybody's sound asleep/' said Francis. 


sively uncomfortable and much too small. 

Besides, delays are dangerous," 

M We'll go on in half a sec/* said Francis, 

and Mavis added kindly : — 

4 * You're really quite safe now, you know." 
M You aren't," said the mermaid. " I 

Digitized by GoOQ I C 

It was wonderful how brave and confident 
they felt now that the deed was done* 4< It's 
perfectly safe. Oh ! what's that ? Oh ! " 

A hand had shot out from the black shadow 
of the hedge and caught him by the arm. 

u What is it, France— what is it ? " said 
Original from 





Mavis, who could not see what was hap- 

" What is it now— what is it ? " asked 
the n.ermaid, more crossly than she had yet 

s ^" 




" Who is it ? Oh ! who is it ? " gasped 
Francis, writhing in the grip of his invisible 
assailant, And from the dark shadow of the 
hedge came the simple and terrible replv ; — 

" The Police 1 " 


(To be continued J)Qr\q'\r\a\ from 



^Afitk Some Easy Puzzles for Beginners. By Henry E. Dudeney. 

Here is a little cutting-out poser. I take a strip of 
paper, measuring five inches by one inch, and, by 
cutting it into five pieces, the parts fit together and 

form a square, as shown in the illustration (see also 
our No. 101). - Now, it is quite an interesting puzzle 
to discover how we can do this in only four pieces. 


This is a little game that will tie your brains into 
knots. So far as I know it is auite new, and has never 
appeared in print. It is childishly simple in its con- 
ditions, and a good companion to the Squire's game 
given in our last issue. 

Mr. Stubbs pulled a small table between himself and 
his friend, Mr. Wilson, and took a box of matches, 
from which he counted out thirty. 

" Here are thirty matches," he said. " I divide 
them into three unequal heaps. Let me see. We 
have 14, 11, and 5, as it happens. Now, the two 
players draw alternately any number from any one 
heap, and he who draws the last match loses the 

rime. That's all ! I will play with you, Wilson, 
have formed the heaps, so you have the first draw." 

" As I can draw any number," Mr. Wilson said, 
" suppose I exhibit my usual moderation and take all 
the 14 heap." 

44 That is the worst you could do, for it loses right 
away. I take 6 from the n, leaving two equal heaps 
of 5, and to leave two equal heaps is a certain *in 
(with the single exception of 1, 1), because whatever 
you do in one heap I can repeat in the other. If you 
leave 4 in one heap, I leave 4 in the other. If you 
then leave 2 in one Heap, I leave 2 in the other. If 
you leave only 1 in one heap, then I take all the other 
heap. If you take all one heap, I take all but one 
in the other. No, you must never leave two heaps, 
unless they are equal heaps and more than 1, 1. 
Let's begin again." 

" Very well, then," said Mr. Wilson, " I will take 
6 from the 14 and leave you 8, 11, 5." 

Mr. Stubbs then left 8, 11, 3 ; Mr. Wilson, 8, 5. 3 ; 
Mr. Stubbs, 6, 5, 3 ; Mr. W T ilson, 4, 5, 3 ; Mr. Stubbs. 
4, 5, 1 ; Mr. Wilson, 4, 3, 1 ; Mr. Stubbs, 2, 3, 1 ; 
Mr. Wilson, 2, 1, 1 ; which Mr. Stubbs reduced to 1, r, 1, 

44 It is now quite clear that 1 must win," said Mr. 
Stubbs, because you must take 1, and then 1 take 1, 
leaving you the last match. You happened to play 
into a sequence that I know, and you never had a 
chance. The fact is, there are just thirteen different 
ways in which the matches may be grouped at the 
start for a certain win. But unless you have all the 
winning groups in your memory, it is practically a 
game of chance. In fact, the groups selected, 14, 1 1, 5, 
are a certain win, because for whatever vour opponent 
Vol. xlv.-12. 

may play there is another winning group you can 
secure, and so on and on down to the last match." 


It will be seen in our illustration how twelve mince- 
pies may be placed on the table so as to form six 
straight rows with four pies in every row. The puzzle 

by L^OOgle 

is to remove only four of them to new positions so that 
there shall be seven straight rows with four in every 
row. Which four would you remove, and where would 
you replace them ? 


112. — Matches Puzzle.— Can you place three 
matches on the table, and support the match-box on 
them, without allowing the heads of the matches to 
touch the table, to touch one another, or to touch the 
box ? 

113.— The Box of Sweets. — I bought a box of 
sweets for twopence-halfpenny. The sweets cost 
twopence more than the box. What did the box cost ? 
See how many of your friends will be tripped up by 
this very simple question. 

114. — Anagrams. — Can you make a common English 
word out of the letters of EARLY bat ? (" Rateably " 
is not a word.) Can you also form another word from 


115. — Missing Words.— The five missing words in 
the following verse each contain the same letters. 
What are the words ? 

Far from the railway's and noise, 

Along .the pleasant country side ; 

Where each bird and sings with joy. 

Where ploughmen lead their with pride, 

The rider his fiery steed, 

But soon on and wine will feed. 

116.— Digits and Squares.— It will be seen that 
we have so arranged the 
nine digits in a square that 
the number in the second 
row (3, 8, 4) is twice that 
in the first row, and the 
number in the bottom row 
three times that in the top 
row. There are three other 
•ways of arranging the dibits 
so as to produce the same 
result. Can you find them ? 

Original from 












This amusing set of doyleys was supplied to us by Mr. James R R Sintzenieh, who has had them in his 
possession for nearly half a century* and informs us that they were drawn by a lady friend of his 
family, They are curiosities in their way, and show a sense of humour, as well as of draughtsmanship, 

which we think our readers will appreciate. 



Y 4u lit ana 
Pens i t is 








Botilephoiiiia Jpoonijblia/& 



^ -" 


'^. BoixopipicAi m Gracilis 


iSe^A&V-. 56 *' 

V_ Frshia Ma rina .. ." 








^Phaitfacia Stupenda tf 


Or i g i na l from 





Illustrated by Rene Bull. 


was once a young 
grocer who went to see a 
performance of " Faust/' 
and then supped inordinately 
before retiring to bed. 
The blend of excitement 
and repletion produced the 
following nightmare. 

He dreamed that he was standing behind a 
counter on which was a large canister of tea. 
Beside it were a pair of scales and some sheets 
of packing paper, There were no weight 
for the scales, and there was nothing t U 
the shop. 

" This is a nice sort of outfit, 

don't think/' said the grocer 

himself. " I[ a customer 


comes in I shall have to put him 
off somehow." 

At that moment 
entered, in a red cloak 
fastened with a large 
metal clasp. 

*'I want a pound 
of that tea/ 3 said 

" Cirtainlyj sir/ 7 
said the grocer. " We 
will send it round 
almost immediately. 
Nice weather for the 
time of year, sin" 

( *That won't do," 
said Mephistopheies, 
" I want that pound 
of tea now, 1 * 

" Very sorry 5 sir. It's 
a most extraordinary 
thing — never knew it to happen before 
our weights have just gone to be- 

" Aha ! " said Mephistopheles. <( But will 
one of those scale-pans hold water ? " 

111 it can/ said m ef his 
topheles, with ter 


" The right-hand one is scoop-shaped, and 
you could put a pint or more in it* But the 
other is absolutely flat, and you could do 
nothing with it." 

w y er y well," said Mephistopheles, pro- 
ducing a vessel from under his cloak, " This 
vessel, tht weight of which is unknown, 
contains exactly half a pint of distilled 

w a t e r. The 
j^i \ clasp of my 
^ cloak weighs 

exactly six 
and a half 
ounces. Take 
these two 
things and 
weigh me our 
a pound of 
tea- — neither 
more nor less 
— and don't 
weigh the 

" But— but 
— it cannot be 
don e/ 1 said 
the grocer, 
"It can/ 1 
said Mephistopheles, with ter- 
rific intensity. " Do it or die ! " 
The .shock awoke the grocer. 
But when he was awake and 
thought it over, he saw that 
Mephistopheles was correct , and 
that with the half -pint of distilled 
water and the clasp weighing six and 
a half ounces he could have given 
Mephistopheles his pound of tea 
exactly. How ? 

1 n 

er — 

41 Out ! J * said the umpire, as the village 
clock struck. 

Bulger cast one glance of undving hatred 
at that ^^BaJuKP Walked sulkily to the 




pavilion. As he was taking off his pads 
he said to the bright young boy who was 
scoring: " What did I make, Bill ? " 

" The clock has just struck on a* for 
every two runs you 
made " said the bright 
young b o y, glibly : 
" and if you had made 
twice as many you 
would have made three 
times the number that 
the clock will strike at 
the succeeding hour." 

Whereupon Bulger } 
incensed by the Lb*vv. 
decision, and further incensed by his 
failure to obtain a plain answer to a plain 
question, smote the bright young boy on 
the occipital protuberance, and bumped his 
nose against the bowling analysis. 

But, speaking seriously, and calculating 
from Bill's statistics, whai was the time by 
the village clock when Bulger was given out ? 

" Walk over and have tea to-morrow after- 
noon/* said old Dr, Sharper to young Mr, 
Wood head, 

" Thanks," said Mr, Woodhead. " 111 
start from my house at three. Suppose you 
start from your house at the same time and 
meet me* Then we shall meet half-way. 1 ' 

M Oh, no. I am an old man, and my pace 
is three miles an 
hour. You are 
young and active ; 
you do four miles 
an hour, You must 
make some allow- 
ance for thai." 

u I see," said Mr. 
Woodhead, with 
that look of bright 

intelligence so often 

exhibited by the 

absolutely fatuous. 

M That makes a dif- 
ference of one mile. 

Well, to pui that 

right, Til start a 

quarter of an hour 

earlier. Will that 


"Very nicely," 

said Dr, Sharper, 

with a mysterious 


So Mr, Woodhead 
started at two- 
forty-five and 


walked four miles an 
hour. Dr, Sharper 
started at three and 
walked three miles an 
hour. They met, and 
Dr. Sharper turned 
back to his own 
house again with Mr, 
Wood head . 

Over the tea-table 
Mr, Woodhead said 
that he must have 
made some mistake 
about that time 
allowance. He felt 
sure that when he 
got home at night he 
would have walked 

more than double as much as Dr, Sharper, 
" You will have walked four times as 

much/' said Dr. Sharper^ and this was exactly 


How far was it from Dr. Sharper's house 

to Mr. Woodhead ? s house ? 

A Sunday-school treat took place in a big 
field. It grew near to tea-time. Outside the 
marquee in which tea was to be served stood 
the refreshment contractor and the senior 
curate. The refreshment contractor was a fat 
man, because, owing to the exigencies of his 
business, he had to live principally on the cakes 
that were left over. The senior curate 
was very thin, tall, and scholarly. 

" Yes/* said the refreshment 
contractor, "If I had five more 
chairs we could do them in three 
parties with 
the same num- 
ber in each, I 
,_ will see if I 
cannot borrow 
five chairs 
somewhere/ 1 
" D on't 
trouble/' said the curate. " I 
will divide them into four par- 
ties with the same number in 

" In that case/' said the con- 
tractor, li each party will have 
three chairs too many." 

How many children weTe there, 
and how many chairs had the 
contractor got ? 

The answers to 



IX THAT CASE/ SAIO THE ., ... , ^ , . 

CONTRACTOR, 'EACH PARTY WILL *****' «*'* *™" /W* proHemS, Will 


Solutions to the Puzzles and Problems 
in Our Last Number. 

A Set of Nutcrackers. By Henry E. Dudeney. 

The following are the answers : — 


If a man marries a woman, who dies, and he then 
marries his deceased wife's sister and himself dies, it 
may be correctly said that he had (previously) married 
the sister of his widow. 

The youth was not the nephew of Jane Brown, 
because he happened to be her son. Her surname 
was the same as that of her brother because she had 
married a man of the same name as herself. 

It was clearly the intention of the deceased to give 
the son twice as much as the mother, or the daughter 
half as much as the mother. Therefore, the most 
equitable division would be that the mother should 
take two-sevenths, the son four-sevenths, and the 
daughter one-seventh. 

Four- fourths exceeds three-fourths by one-fourth. 
That is true; but what fractional part of three-fourths 
is one-fourth ? Clearly one- third, which is the correct 


The mixture of spirits of wine and water is in the 
proportion of 40 to 1, just as in the other bottle it was 
in the proportion of 1 to 40. 

We must take it for granted that the sum Rogers 
paid, £2,500, was one-third of the value of the business, 
which was consequently worth £7,500 before he entered. 
Smugg's interest in the business had therefore been 
£4,500 (one and a half times as much as Williamson's), 
and Williamson's £3,000. As each is now to have an 
equal interest, Smugg should receive £2,000 of Rogers's 
contribution, and Williamson should receive £500. 




10. — 
11. — 
12. — 


IS. — 


17 — 

18 — 

20. — 

ons to Nos. 1 to 6 as already given. 
.R — B 5, or 6, or R — Q 5 or 6. 

K R— K. 6 (ch) 
K— K6 
K R— K 6 (ch) 
R B 5 
R— K Kt 6 
K— Q 2 
R— Q8 


K R— R 4 (ch) 

R— KB 1 

Q R— Kt 5 (ch) 

Q R-Kt 5 (ch) 


21.— I. 
22. — I. 
23.— i. 
24.— I. 
25.— I. 
26. — I. 


R— R 7 
R— R 7 
R— R 7 
R— R7 
R-B 1 

27.— 1. R-H8 

28.— 1. 
29. — 1. 
30. — 1. 

3 2 

R—Q B 1 
R— KB 5 
R— Q 8 
R— Kt8 
1. R— Kt8 

33.— 1. R— K R4 

The second move in Nos. 2o~and 21 is : Castles after 
K moves up. In Hallstrom's position either R may 
play to the fourth square on first move. 

The number that can be divided by every other 
number without a remainder is the product obtained 
by multiplying together all numbers ! 

This puzzle can be solved in as few as five moves, as 
follows : Jump 5 over 6, 3, 1 , and 7 ; 2 over 4 ; 9 over 
8 ; 2 over 9 ; and 5 over 2. Every move is thus a 
leaping move. 

The twenty ounces might have been weighed into 
ten two-ounce packets in as few as nine weighing 
operations, as follows : (1) With the 50Z. and 902. 
weights in different pans, weigh 40Z. (2) With 40Z. 
weigh second 40Z. (3) Weigh third 40Z. (4) Weigh 
fourth 40Z., and the remainder will be also 40Z. (5), 
(6), (7), (8), (9) Divide each portion of 40Z. in turn 
equally on the two sides of the scales. 

With twenty-seven matches, drawing 1, 2, 3, or 4 
at a time, the first player should always win. He must 
take either 3 or 4 on his first play, and afterwards 
contrive (which he can always do) that when he holds 
odd he leaves a multiple of 6 or one more than a 
multiple of 6 ; and when he holds even he leaves one 
less than a multiple of 6. This applies to any number 
of matches that is three more than a multiple of 6, 
such as 27. He may also win by the same rule if the 
number of matches is one more than a multiple of 6, 
only in such cases he must take 1 or 2 at his first play. 
If the number of matches be one less than a multiple 
of 6 (as in the case of 23), the second player can always 
win, as he can adopt that line of play, from which his 
opponent is now excluded. 


The solutions to the two problems are : — 
No. 1. 

A leads king of diamonds and throws knave of diamonds on 
it. He then leads a spade and ruffs it. B leads remaining 
trump. D must play his small club on it, as C must keep the 
two clubs and the queen of diamonds. A also discards his club. 
B then leads queen of clubs, and D has to unguard diamonds 
or throw winning spade. In either case A and B win every 

by L^OOgle 

No. 2. 

A leads queen of clubs and discards king of diamonds on it ; 
then ten of diamonds, which is covered by knave of diamonds, and 
ruffs it. B returns two of spades, which A takes with king, and 
leads out queen of heaits and six of clubs, I) must discard a 
spade or a diamond, and A and B make rest of tricks. 



[*ft shaii h glad to rtceivt Contrihvtwm to tkis mtion* and to fay fir suck as are am/tot.} 


SOME months 
ago a button 
of my waistcoat 
came off t and, 
bachelor - like, I 
proceeded to re- 
place it. I stood 
by the mantelshelf, 
on which needle 
and thread were 
ready, when 

attracted elsewhere. 

found that needle 


attention was suddenly 
turning round again I 

thread bad mysteriously disappeared. A search 
failed to trace the missing article, and another 
was procured. Some time afterwards, during cleaning 
operations, the object here depleted was removed from 
the family kettle. On examination it proved to be the 
lost needle and thread. The whole is coated with 
fur deposited during boiling operations, and the eve of 
the needle, besides the tangled thread, is plainly 
discernible. It seems that as I was turning round the 
needle and thread were dragged off the mantelpiece 
and fell into the kettle, with this curious result. — Mr, 
John T. Sargent, 21 , St + James's Road, Hastings. 


THIS puzzling but cleverly -taken photograph is 
the work of one of the pupils in a large school 
in BexhtiK The subject, Professor Stearns, has just 
planted himself in the horizontal position known as 
the one-arm balance — a balance exceedingly difficult 
to retain for any considerable length of time. The 

■> > 

camera was then held in such a position that the feet 
and legs of the gymnast were entirely obscured by the 
head and shoulders. The fact that the left arm is 
extended towards the camera makes it appear of very 
scanty Length. This is also called the " weather vane," 
if the performer (as in the present case) can turn on 
hjs right arm as though on a pivot, thus indicating the 
different [toints of the compass. 



*HE proprietor of the 
finest cafe in Los 
Angeles formerly sold "hot 
tamales " from a push-cart, 
and, although he is now 
wiiil I hy, he still preserves 
this okl vehicle. In erecting 
a business blc^k to house 
his modern restaurant, lie 
built a cupola just liirge 
enough to contain the old 
tainalc cart, and it may be 
plainly seen from the street. 
In met, far from being 
ashamed of this relic of his 
days of poverty, he is so 
attached to it that when a fire threatened his establish- 
ment he directed the firemen to let the silver and cut 
Rlas-s go until the old cart was safe ! — Mr* C- L, 
Edholm, 4,624, Figueroa Street, Los Angeles, California* 


tine tlic 

'ARE a piece of 
heavy wrapping 
paper about the size oi 
a 1 lews pu per page and 
roll it inio a Jong cone, 
fasten it securely, ami 
cut the point off the cone, 
leaving an opening about 
the size of a sixpence. 
Then set fire to the large 
end of the cone, holding 
the pointed end upwards, 
and with the same match 
ignite the smoke as it 
issues from the opening 
in the small end of the 
cone. The effect will be 
that shown in thCNqgnTjB^tfOgllphoLtJgraplu— Mr 




™* \?fitJtr A £~fti* »£*i 


"["HE list 
| shown 
in the accom- 
panying illus- 
tration was 
found, in the 
possession of 
a native 
"grounding n" 
in charge of 
the property 
belonging to 
the Darjeel- 
jng Cricket 
Club, of which 
I was once 
hon* secre- 
tary. The 
man, being 
unable to 
read or write, 
had adopted 
t h is quaint 
method of 
listing the 
property in 
his charge . 
The illustra- 
tions represent the nature of each article, and the 
figures, which purport to be numerals used in the 
* l Deb Nagri " language, the number of each article. 
It will be noticed that, although quite illiterate, the 
man was not without some natural gift as a draughts- 
man,, since he was able to reproduce, though some- 
what crudely , the shape of each article in his 
possession. —Mr, C. E. Gouldsbury, c/o H. S* King 
and Co., 9, Pall Mall, S.W. 





PROBABLY nowhere is there so strange a " house ** 
as that lived in by Joaquin Miller, the '* Poet of 
the Sierras," In fact, in this case th house " is a 
collective noun, for the bard sleeps under one roof, 
eats and cooks under another, and entertains visitors 
under still another. Yet the poet insists that it is all 
one bouse, with merely a pleasant walk in the sunshine 
between the rooms. The poet's home is at Dimond, 
California, in the foothills at the back of Berkeley and 
Oakland. From the photograph it mipht appear that 
an entire village clusters on this hillside, but, as a mutter 
of fact, the poet Ls the only occupant of these houses, 
or ** rooms." He is much visited by lovers of his poetry, 
however, and the " guest room T] is Generally crowded. 
In this room he has a museum of relics, and he shows 
with grim pride a piece of one of his own ears, which 
was frozen off in Alaska* — Mr. Aubrey Drury, 1,912, 
Vinjiuia Street, Berkeley, California, T.S.A. 

^ ■ — — ~f£* f^ 

c *$**^< — ^cr ^ 

"%£**** . -flCt .*-- 


SOME while ago your " Curiosities " page contained 
a verse in which half-a-dozen words were left 
blank, each of these words being composed of the 
same six letters. This suggested to me another verse 
-on the same lines, which I think your readers will find 
interesting and not too difficult of solution. — Mr. A. 
Salter, /Eolia, 44, The Avenue, Muswcll Hill, N- 


A HOME-BUILDER in California hit upon a charm- 
ing idea when he caused his little son to make 
the impression of his hands in the wet£ccni£nt of the 
walk tie fore his door Although the imprint was made 

in 18S7, the outlines 
of the little hands are 
perfectly clear, and will 
remain as a dainty 
souvenir of the boy's 
play days* It is just 
such touches of senti- 
ment as this that make 
the difference between 
a house and a home, — 
M r.C*L.Edholm, 4,624, 
Eigucroa Street, Los 
Angeles* California, 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 





Vol xlv. 

FEBRUARY, 1913. 

No. 266. 


Smitk and tke Pkarao 


Illustrated ty Alec Ball. 


Wandering one day among the Egyptian sculptures in the British Museum, Smith falls in love with the 
plaster cast of an unknown woman's head, which seems to him to return his gaze with a mysterious smile. 
As a result, he becomes an ardent Egyptologist, and spends his holidays in excavation work in Egypt. On 
his third visit he finds in a tomb the head of a statuette, whose smiling features he immediately recognizes 
as those of the cast in the Museum, and whose name he discovers from the hieroglyphics is Queen 
Ma-Mee. Realizing that he is in her desecrated tomb, he renews his search, and finds, among other 
things, a mummied hand bearing two gold rings. 

Smith takes his discoveries to the Cairo Museum, and is allowed to retain the statuette, the mummied 
hand, and one of the rings. After leaving the Director he wanders through the Museum, and, forgetful of 
time, at length finds himself locked in among the mummies of the kings and queens of Egypt. Realizing 
the impossibility of making his way out, Smith settles himself comfortably for the night. As soon as he 
has done so, however, he becomes aware that a great gathering of Egyptian kings and queens— among 
whom he recognizes the original of his statuette — has taken place, and he becomes greatly interested in 
their conversation. 


ILENCE fell upon that glitter- 
ing galaxy of kings and queens 
and upon all the hundreds of 
their offspring, their women, 
and their great officers who 
crowded the double tier of 
galleries around the hall. 
" Royalties of Egypt/' she began, in a sweet, 
clear voice which penetrated to the farthest 
recesses of the place, " I, Cleopatra, the sixth 
of that name and the last monarch who ruled 
over the Upper and the Lower Lands before 
Egypt became a home of slaves, have a word 
to say to your Majesties, who, in your mortal 
days, all of you more worthily filled the throne 
on which once I sat. I do not speak of Egypt 
and its late, or of our sins — whereof mine were 
not the least — that brought her to the dust. 
Those sins I and others expiate elsewhere, 
and of them, from age to age, we hear enough. 
But on this one night of the year, that of the 
feast of him whom we call Osiris, but whom 
other nations have known and know by 
different names, it is given to us once more to 
be mortal for an hour, and, though we be but 
shadows, to renew the loves and hates of our 
long-perished flesh. Here for an hour we strut 
in our forgotten pomp; the gems that were 
ours still adorn our brows, and once more we 


seem to listen to our people's praise. Our 
hopes are the hopes of mortal life, our foes are 
the foes we feared, our gods grow real again, 
and our lovers whisper in our ears. Moreover, 
this joy is given to us — to see each other as we 
. are, to know as the gods know, and therefore 
to forgive, even where we despise and hate. 
Now I have done, and I, the youngest of the 
rulers of ancient Egypt, call upon him who 
was the first of her kings to take my place." 

She bowed, and the audience bowed back 
to her. Then she descended the steps and 
was lost in the throng. Where she had been 
appeared an old man, simply-clad, long- 
bearded, wise-faced, and wearing on his grey 
hair no crown save a plain band of gold, 
from the centre of which rose the snake- 
headed urceus crest. 

" Your Majesties who came after me," said 
the old man, U I am Menes, the first of the 
accepted Pharaohs of Egypt, although many 
of those who went before me were more truly 
kings than I. Yet as the first who joined 
the Upper and the Lower Lands, and took 
the royal style and titles, and ruled as well as 
I could rule, it is given to me to talk with you 
for a while this night whereon our spirits are 
permitted to gather from the uttermost parts 
of the uttermost ^oridis and see each other 

VoL xlv.-ia 

Copyright, 1913, by H. Rider fflfo^SITY OF MICHIGAN 



face to face. First, in darkness and in secret, 
let us speak of the mystery of the gods and 
of its meanings. Next, in darkness and in 
secret, let us speak of the mys ~y of our 
lives, of whence they come, of where they 
tarry by the road, and whither they go at 
last. And afterwards, let us speak of other 
matters face to face in light and openness, 
as we were wont to do when we were men. 
Then hence to Thebes, there to celebrate our 
yearly festival. Is such your will ? " 
" Such is our will," they answered. 

It seemed to Smith that dense darkness 
fell upon the place, and with it a silence that 
was awful. For a time that he could not 
reckon, that might have been years or might 
have been moments, he sat there in the utter 
darkness and the utter silence. 

At length the light came again, first as a blue 
spark, then in upward pouring rays, and lastly 
pervading all. There stood Menes on the 
steps, and there in front of him was gathered 
the same royal throng. 

" The mysteries are finished," said the old 
king. " Now, if any have aught to say, let 
it be said openly." 

A young man dressed in the robes and 
ornaments of an early dynasty came forward 
and stood upon the steps between the 
Pharaoh Menes and all those who had reigned 
after him. His face seemed familiar to 
Smith, as was the side lock that hung down 
behind his right ear in token of his youth. 
Where had he seen him ? Ah, he remembered. 
Only a few hours ago lying in one of the cases « 
of the Museum, together with the bones of 
the Pharaoh Unas. 

" Your Majesties," he began, " I am the 
King Metesuphis. The matter that I wish 
to lay before you is that of the violation of 
our sepulchres by those men who now live 
upon the earth. The mortal bodies of many 
who are gathered here to-night lie in this 
place to be stared at and mocked by the 
curious. I myself am one of them, jawless, 
broken, hideous to behold. Yonder, day by 
day, must my Ka sit watching my desecrated 
flesh, torn from the pyramid that, with cost 
and labour, I raised up to be an eternal house 
wherein I might hide till the hour of resur- 
rection. Others of us lie in far lands. Thus, 
as he can tell you, my predecessor, Men- 
kau-ra, he who built the third of the great 
pyramids, the Pyramid of Her, sleeps, or 
rather wakes, in a dark city called London 
across the seas, a place of murk where no sun 
shines. Others have been burnt with fire, 
others are scattered in small dust. The 

ornaments that were ours are stolen away 
and sold to the greedy ; our sacred writings 
and our symbols are their jest. Soon there 
will not be one holy grave in Egypt that 
remains undefiled." 

" That is so," said a voice from the company. 
" But four months gone the deep, deep pit 
was opened that I had dug in the shadow of 
the Pyramid of Cephren who begat me in 
the world. There in my chamber I slept 
alone, two handfuls of white bones, since 
when I died we did not preserve the body 
with wrappings and with spices. Now I see 
those bones of mine, beside which my double 
has watched for these five thousand years, hid 
in the blackness of a great ship and tossing 
on a sea that is strewn with ice." 

" It is so," echoed a hundred other voices. 

" Then," went on the young king, turning 
to Menes, " I ask of your Majesty whether there 
is no means whereby we may be avenged 
on those who do us this foul wrong." 

" Let him who has wisdom speak," said 
the old Pharaoh. 

A man of middle age, short in stature and 
of a thoughtful brow, who held in his hand a 
wand and wore the feathers and insignia of 
the heir to the throne of Egypt and of a high 
priest of Amen, moved to the steps. Smith 
knew him at once from his statues. He was 
Khaemuas, son of Rameses the Great, the 
mightiest magician that ever was in Egypt, 
who of his own will withdrew himself from 
earth before the time came that he should 
sit upon the throne. 

" I have wisdom, your Majesties, and I 
will answer," he said. " The time draws on 
when, in the land of Death which is Life, 
the land that we call Amenti, it will be given 
to us to lay our wrongs as to this matter 
before Those who judge, knowing that they 
will be avenged. On this night of the 
year also, when we resume the shapes we 
wore, we have certain powers of vengeance, 
or rather of executing justice. But our time 
is "short, and there is much to say and do 
before the sun god Ra arises and we depart 
each to his place. Therefore it seems best 
that we should leave these wicked ones in 
their wickedness till we meet them face to 
face beyond the world." 

Smith, who had been following the words of 
Khaemuas with the closest attention and 
considerable anxiety, breathed again, thank- 
ing Heaven that the engagements of these 
departed monarchs were so numerous and 
pressing. Still, as a matter of precaution, he 
drew the cigar box which, contained Ma-Mee's 
handif^ph^^^^jjushed it as far 




away from him as he could. It was a most 
unlucky act. Perhaps the cigar-box grated on 
the floor, or perhaps the fact of his touching 
the relic put him into psychic communica- 
tion with all these spirits. At any rate, he 
became aware that the eyes of that dreadful 
magician were fixed upon him, and that a bone 
had a better chance of escaping the search 
of a Rontgen ray than he of hiding him- 
self from their baleful glare. 

" As it happens, however," went on 
Khaemuas, in a cold voice, " I now per- 
ceive that there is hidden in this place, 
and spying on us, one of the worst of these 
vile thieves. I say to your Majesties that 
I see him crouched beneath yonder funeral 
barge, and that he has with him at this 
moment the hand of one of your Majesties, 
stolen by him from her tomb at Thebes." 

Now every queen in the company became 
visibly agitated (Smith, who was watching 
Ma-Mee, saw her hold up her hands and look 
at them), while all the Pharaohs pointed 
with their fingers and exclaimed together, in 
a voice that rolled round the hall like 
thunder : — 

" Let him be brought forth to judgment ! " 

Khaemuas raised his wand and, holding it 
towards the boat where Smith was hidden, 
said :— - 

" Draw near, Vile One, bringing with thee 
that thou hast stolen." 

Smith tried hard to remain where he was. 
He sat himself down and set his heels against 
the ground. As the reader knows, he was 
always shy and retiring by disposition, and 
never had these weaknesses oppressed him 
more than they did just then. When a child 
his favourite nightmare had been that the 
foreman of a jury was in the act of proclaiming 
him guilty of some dreadful but unstated 
crime. Now he understood what that night- 
mare foreshadowed. He was about to be 
convicted in a court of which all the kings 
and queens of Egypt were the jury, Menes was 
Chief Justice, and the magician Khaemuas 
played the role of Attorney-General. 

In vain did he sit down and hold fast. 
Some power took possession of him which 
forced him first to stretch out his arm and 
pick up the cigar-box containing the hand 
of Ma-Mee, and next drew him from the 
friendly shelter of the deal boards that were 
about the boat. 

Now he was on his feet and walking down 
the flight of steps opposite to those on which 
Menes stood far away. Now he was among all 
that throng of ghosts, which parted to let 
him pass, looking at him as he went with 

cold and wondering eyes. Thev were very 
majestic ghosts ; the ages that nad gone by 
since they laid down their sceptres had taken 
nothing from their royal dignity. Moreover, 
save one, none of them seemed to have any 
pity for his plight. She was a little princess 
who stood by her mother. As he passed 
Smith heard her say : " This Vile One is 
frightened. Be brave, Vile One ! " 

Smith understood, and pride came to his aid. 
He, a gentleman of the modern world, would 
not show the white feather before a crowd of 
ancient Egyptian ghosts. Turning to the 
child, he smiled at her, then drew himself to 
his full height and walked on quietly. Here 
it may be stated that Smith was a tall man, 
still comparatively young, and very good- 
looking, straight and spare in frame, with dark, 
pleasant eyes and a little black beard. 

" At least he is a well-favoured thief," said 
one of the queens to another. 

" Yes," answered she who had been 
addressed. " I wonder that a man with such 
a noble air should find pleasure in disturbing 
graves and stealing the offerings of the dead," 
words that gave Smith much cause for 
thought. He had never considered the 
matter in this light. 

Now he came to the place where Ma-Mee 
stood, the black-browed Pharaoh who had 
been her husband at her side. On his left 
hand, which held the cigar-box, was the gold 
Bes ring, and that box he felt constrained to 
carry pressed against him just over his heart. 

As he went by he turned his head, and 
his eyes met those of Ma-Mee. She started 
violently. Then she saw the ring upon his 
hand and again started, still more violently. 

" What ails your Majesty ? " asked the 

" Oh, naught," she answered. " Yet does 
this earth-dweller remind you of anyone ? " 

" Yes, he does," answered the Pharaoh. 
" He reminds me very much of that accursed 
sculptor about whom we had words." 

" Do you mean a certain Horu, the Court 
artist; he who worked the image that was 
buried with me, and whom you sent to 
carve your statues in the deserts of Kush, 
until he died of fever — or was it poison ? " 

" Aye ; Horu and no other, may Set take 
and keep him ! " growled the Pharaoh. 

Then Smith passed on and heard no more. 
Now he stood before the venerable Menes. 
Some instinct caused him to bow to this 
Pharaoh, who bowed back to him. Theii he 
turned and bowed to the royal company, and 
they also bowed back to him, coldly, but 
very gravely ami courteously. 






Original fr 



" Dweller on the world where once we had 
our place, and therefore brother of us, the 
dead/' began Menes, " this divine priest and 
magician " — and he pointed to Khaemuas — 
" declares that you are one of those who foully 
violate our sepulchres and desecrate our 
ashes. He declares, moreover, that at this very 
moment you have with you a portion of the 
mortal flesh of a certain Majesty whose spirit 
is present here. Say, now, are these things 
true ? " 

To his astonishment Smith found that he 
had not the slightest difficulty in answering 
in the same sweet tongue. 

" King, they are true and not true. 
Hear me, rulers of Egypt. It is true that I 
have searched in your graves, because my heart 
has been drawn towards you, and I would 
learn all that I could concerning you, for it 
comes to me now that once I was one of you 
— no king, indeed, yet perchance of the blood 
of kings. Also — for I would hide nothing 
even if I could — I searched for one tomb 
above all others." 

" Why, O man ? " asked the Judge. 

" Because a face drew me, a face that was 
cut in stone." 

Now all that great audience turned their 
eyes towards him and listened as though 
his words moved tl^em. , 

" Did you find that holy tomb ? " asked 
Mencs. " If so, what did you find therein ? " 

" Aye, Pharaoh, and in it I found these," 
and he took from the box the withered hand, 
from his pocket the broken bronze, and from 
his finger the ring. 

" Also I found other things which I 
delivered to the keeper of this place, 
articles of jewellery that I seem to see 
to-night upon one who is present here 
among you." 

" Is the face of this figure the face you 
sought ? " asked the Judge. 

" It is the face," he answered. 

Menes took the effigy in his |jand and read 
the cartouche that was engraved beneath its 

" If there be here among us," he said, 
presently, " one who long after my day 
ruled as Queen in Egypt, one who was named 
Ma-Me, let her draw near." 

Now from where she stood glided Ma-Mee 
and took her place opposite to Smith. 

"Say, Queen," asked Menes, "do you 
know aught of this matter ? " 

" I know that hand ; it was my own 
hand," she answered. " I know that ring ; it 
was my ring. I know that image in bronze ; 
it was my image. Look on me and judge for 

yourselves whether this be so. A certain 
sculptor fashioned it, the son of a king's 
son, who was named Horu, the first of 
sculptors and the head artist of my Court. 
There, clad in strange garments, hie stands 
before you. Horu, or the double of Horu, 
he who cut the image when I ruled in 
Egypt, is he who found the image and the 
man who stands before you ; or, mayhap, his 
double cast in the same mould." 

The Pharaoh Jlenes turned to the magician 
Khaemuas and said : — 

" Are these things so, O Seer ? " 

" They are so," answered Khaemuas. 
" This dweller on the earth is he who, long 
ago, was the sculptor Horu. But what shall 
that avail ? He, once more a living man, 
is a violator of the hallowed dead. I say, 
therefore, that judgment should be executed 
on his flesh, so that when the light gomes 
here to-morrow he himself will again be 
gathered to the dead." 

Menes bent his head upon his breast and 
pondered. Smith said nothing. To him the 
whole play was so curious that he had no 
wish to interfere with its -development. If 
these ghosts wished to make him of their 
number, let them do so. He had no ties on 
earth, and now when he knew full surely that 
there was a life beyond this of earth he was 
quite prepared to explore its mysteries. 
So he folded his arms upon his breast and 
awaited the sentence. 

But Ma-Mee did not wait. She raised her 
hand so swiftly that the bracelets jingled on 
her wrists, and spoke out with boldness. 

" Royal Khaemuas, prince and magician," 
she said, " hearken to one who, like you, was 
Egypt's heir centuries before you were born, 
one also who ruled over the Two Lands, and 
not so ill — which, Prince, never was your lot. 
Answer me ! Is all wisdom centred in your 
breast ? Answer me ! Do you alone know 
the mysteries of Life and Death ? Answer 
me ! Did your god Amen teach you that 
vengeance went before mercy ? Answer me ! 
Did he teach you that men should be judged 
unheard ? That they should be hurried by 
violence to Osiris ere their time, and thereby 
separated from the dead ones whom they 
loved and forced to return to live again 
upon this evil Earth ? 

" Listen : when the last moon was near her 
full my spirit sat in my tomb in the burying- 
place of queens. My spirit saw this man enter 
into my tomb, and what did he there ? With 
bowed head he looked upon my bones that a 
thief of the priesthood of Amen had robbed 
and ItyNfVf RSfW**&F MfCWjAJ^ 3 °* ^^ 


f .:■! 

burial, in which he himself had taken part. 
And what did this man with those bones, he 
who was once Horn ? I tell you that he 
hid them away there in the tomb where he 
thought they could not be found again. 
Who 3 then, was the thief and the violator ? 
He who robbed and burnt my bones, or he 
who buried them with reverence ? Again, he 

He took the jewels. Would you have had 
him leave them to be stolen by some peasant ? 
And the hand ? I tell you that he kissed that 
poor dead hand which once had been part of 
the body of my Majesty, and that now he 
treasures it as a holy relic. My spirit saw 
him do these things and made report thereof 
to me. I ask you therefore, Prince^ I ask 



found the jewels that the priest of your 
brotherhood had dropped in his flight, when 
the smoke of the burning flesh and spices 
overpoWered him, and with them the hand 
which that wicked one had broken off from 
the body of my Majesty. What did he then ? 

Vol xK-14, 

you all j Royalties of Egypt , whether for 
such deeds this man should die ? " 

Now Khaemuas, the advocate of vengeance, 
shrugged his shoulders and smiled meaningly, 
but the congregation of kings and queens 
thuiUItKflf^iap^ife^lairW'.iC.Nas : u Not" 



Ma-Mee looked to Menes to give judgment. 
Before he could speak the dark-browed 
Pharaoh who had named her wife strode 
forward and addressed them. 

" Her Majesty , Heiress of Egypt, Royal 
Wife, Lady of the Two Lands, has spoken/' 
he cried. " Now let me speak who was the 
husband of her Majesty. Whether this man 
was once Horu the sculptor I know not. If 
so he was also an evil-doer who, by my decree, 
died in banishment in the land of Kush. 
Whatever be the truth as to that matter, he 
admits that he violated the tomb of her 
Majesty and stole what the old thieves had 
left. Her Majesty says also — and he does 
not deny it — that he dared to kiss her hand, 
and for a man to kiss the hand of a wedded 
Queen of Egypt the punishment is death. 
I claim that this man should die to the 
World before his time, that in a day to 
come, again he may live and suffer in the 
World. Judge, O Menes." 

Menes lifted his head and spoke, saying : — 

" Repeat to me the law, O Pharaoh, under 
which a living man must die for the kissing 
of a dead hand. In my day and in that of 
those who went before me there was no such 
law in Egypt. If a living man, who was not 
her husband, or of her kin, kissed the living 
hand of a wedded Queen of Egypt save in 
ceremony, then perchance he might be called 
upon to .die. Perchance for such a reason a 
certain* jHoru once was called upon to die. 
But in the grave there is no marriage, and 
therefore, even if he had found her alive within 
the tomb and kissed her hand, or even her 
lips, why should he die for the crime of love ? 

" Hear me, all ; this is my judgment in 
the matter. Let the soul of that priest 
who first violated the tomb of the royal 
Ma-Mee be hunted down and given to the 
jaws of the Destroyer, that he may know 
the last depths of Death, if so the gods 
declare. But let this man go from among 
us unharmed, since what he did he did 
in reverent ignorance and because Hathor, 
Goddess of Love, guided him from of old. 
Love rules this world wherein we meet to- 
night with all the worlds whence we have 
gathered or whither we still must go. Who 
can defy its power ? Who can refuse its 
rites ? Now hence to Thebes ! " 

There was a rushing sound as of a thousand 
wings, and all were gone. 

No, not all, since Smith yet stood before 
the draped colossi and the empty steps, and 
beside him, glorious, unearthly, gleamed the 
vision of Ma-Mee, 

" I, too, must away," she whispered ; " yet 
ere I go a word with you who once were a 
sculptor in Egypt. You loved me then, and 
that love cost you your life, you who once 
dared to kiss this hand of mine that again you 
kissed in yonder tomb. For I was Pharaoh's 
wife, in name only, understand me well, in 
name only, since that title of Royal Mother 
which they gave me is but a graven lie. Horu, 
I never was a wife, and when you died, 
swiftly I followed you to the grave. Oh, you 
forget, but I remember ! I remember many 
things. You think that the priestly thief broke 
this figure of me which you found in the sand 
outside my tomb. Not so. / broke it, because, 
daring greatly, you had written thereon, 
* Beloved/ not ' of Horus the God/ as you 
should have done, but ' of Horu the Man.' 
So when I came to be buried, Pharaoh, 
knowing all, took the image from my wrap- 
pings and hurled it away. I remember, too, 
the casting of that image, and how you threw 
a gold chain I had given to you into the 
crucible with the bronze, saying that gold 
alone was fit to fashion me. And this signet 
that I bear — it was you who cut it. Take it, 
take it, Horu, and in its place give me back 
that which is on your hand, the Bes ring 
that I also wore. Take it and wear it ever 
till you die again, and let it go to the grave 
with you as once it went to the grave with me. 

" Now hearken. When the great sun arises 
and you awake you will think that you 
have dreamed a dream. You will think that 
in that dream you saw and spoke with a lady 
of Egypt who died more than three thousand 
years ago, but whose beauty, carved in stone 
and bronze, has touched your heart to-day. 
So let it be, yet know, O man, who once were 
named Horu, that such dreams are ofttimes 
a shadow of the truth. Know that this Glory 
which shines before you is mine indeed in 
the land that is both far and near, the land 
wherein I dwell eternally, and that what is 
mine has been, is, and shall be yours for 
ever. Gods may change their kingdoms and 
their names ; men may live and die, and 
live again once more to die ; empires may 
fall and those who ruled them be turned 
to forgotten dust. Yet true love endures 
immortal as the souls in which it was 
conceived, and from it for you and me, 
the night of woe and separation done, at the 
daybreak which draws on, there shall be 
born the splendour and the peace of perfect 
union. Till that hour foredoomed seek me 
no more, though I be ever near you, as I 
have ever been. Till that most blessed hour, 
Horu, farewell/' f OF MICHIGAN 



She bent towards him ; the perfume from 
her breath and hair beat upon him ; the light 
of her wondrous eyes searched out his very soul, 
reading the answer that was written there. 

He stretched out his arms to clasp her, 
and lo, she was gone ! 

It was a very cold and a very stiff Smith 
who awoke on the following morning, to 
find himself exactly where he had lain down — 
namely, on a cement floor beneath the keel 
of a funeral boat in the central hall of the 
Cairo Museum. He crept from his shelter 
shivering, and looked at this hall to find it 
quite as empty as it had been on the previous 
evening. Not a sign or a token was there of 
Pharaoh Menes and all those kings and 
queens of whom he had dreamed so vividly. 
* Reflecting on the strange phantasies that 
weariness and excited nerves can summon to 
the mind in sleep, Smith made his way to 
the great doors and waited in the shadow, 
praying earnestly that, although it was the 
Mohammedan Sabbath, someone might visit 
the Museum to see that all was well. 

As a matter of fact, someone did, and before 
he had been there a minute — a watchman 
going about his business. He unlocked the 
place carelessly, looking over his shoulder 
at a kite fighting with two nesting crows. 
In an instant Smith, who was not minded to 
stop and answer questions, had slipped past 
him and was gliding down the portico, from 
monument to monument, like a snake 
between boulders, still keeping in the shadow 
as he headed for the gates. 

The attendant caught sight of him and 
uttered a yell of fear ; then, since it is not 
good to look upon an afreet, appearing from 
whence no mortal man could be, he turned 
his head away. When he looked again Smith 
was through those gates and had mingled 
with the crowd in the street beyond. 

The sunshine was very pleasant to one who 
was conscious of having contracted a chill of 
the worst Egyptian order from long contact 
with .a damp stone floor. Smith walked on 
through it towards his hotel — it was Shep- 
heard's, and more than a mile away — making 
up a story as he went to tell the hall-porter 
of how he had gone to dine at Mena House 
by the Pyramids, missed the last tram, and 
stopped the night there. 

Whilst he was thus engaged his left hand 
struck somewhat sharply against the corner 
of the cigar-box in his pocket, that which 
contained the relic of the queen Ma-Mee. 
The pain caused him to glance at his fingers 


to see if they were injured, and to perceive 
on one of them the ring he wore. Surely, 
surely it was not the same that the Director- 
General had given him ! That ring was 
engraved with the image of the god Bes. 
On this was cut the cartouche of her Majesty 
Ma-Mee ! And he had dreamed — oh, he 
had dreamed ! 

To this day Smith is wondering whether, 
in the hurry of the moment, he made a 
mistake as to which of those rings the 
Director-General had given him as patt of 
his share of the spoil of the royal tomb he 
discovered in the Valley of Queens. After- 
wards Smith wrote to ask, but the Director- 
General could only remember that he gave 
him one of the two rings, and assured him 
that that inscribed " Bes Ank, Ank Bes," 
was with Ma-Mee's other jewels in the Gold 
Room of the Museum. 

Also Smith is wondering whether any other 
bronze figure of an old Egyptian royalty 
shows so high a percentage of gold as, on 
analysis, the broken image of Ma-Mee was 
proved to do. For had she not seemed to 
tell him a tale of the melting of a golden 
chain when that effigy was cast ? 

Was it all only a dream, or was it — some- 
thing more — by day and by night he asks 
of Nothingness ? 

But, be she near or far, no answer comes 
from the Queen Ma-Mee, whose proud titles 
were " Her Majesty the Good God, the justi- 
fied Dweller in Osiris ; Daughter of Amen, 
Royal Heiress, Royal Sister, Royal Wife, 
Royal Mother ; Lady of the Two Land 5 ; ; 
Wearer of the Double Crown ; of the White 
Crown, of the Red Crown ; Sweet Flower of 
Love, Beautiful Eternally." 

So, like the rest of us, Smith must wait to 
learn the truth concerning many things, and 
more particularly as to which of those two 
circles of ancient gold the Director-General 
gave him yonder at Cairo. 

It seems but a little matter, yet it is more 
than all the worlds to him ! 

To the astonishment of his colleagues in 
antiquarian research, Smith has never re- 
turned to Egypt. He explains to them that 
his health is quite restored, and that he no 
longer needs this annual change to a more 
temperate clime. 

Now, which of the two royal rings did the 
Director-General return to Smith on the 
finger of her late Majesty, Ma-Mee ? 


In Quest of Quiet. 


Illustrated fey Bert Thomas. 

[Thif ii in every detail a true story, and will excite the sympathy ftf others who h&ve sought quiet and not found it.] 

OME little time ago, in the 
month of November ? I re- 
ceived a commission for a 
musical composition which 
was to be ready by Christmas. 
As absolute quiet is essential 
for rapid work, and I li% r ed in 
rather a noisy flat in 
London., I resolved to 
go down to a little- 
known seaside place, 
which I will call 
Shrimpington, where 

I could write undis- 

I happened to 
have a friend who 
was the postmaster 
there* When I say 

II friend/' he was not 
exactly that ; he was 
an amateur vocalist 
whom I had met at 
a choral society I 
used to conduct. 

He was a little, red- 
faced man named 
Bullet, with a high 
and penetrating voire 
tinged with adenoids 
(sometimes called a 
tenor). He attracted 
my attention when we 
were rehearsing " The 
Wreck of the Hes- 
perus/' because he 
always grinned at the 
man on his left when 
they came to the 
words, " the billows 
frothed like yeast." 
On my asking him 

why he did this, he told me that the man 
next to him was a baker by trade ! It 
seemed a new form of humour, and we became 
friendly. When he left London he gave me 
his card j and begged me to give him a call 




if I ever came his way. So when I arrived at 
Shrimpington I at once sought my friend at 
the post-office. 

The little man was delighted to see me, and 
upon learning the reason for my sudden 
appearance pressed me to stay with him. 
Much as I respected hinij I courteously but 

firmly declined, I had 
come to work, and 
the "divine afflatus" 
might descend upon 
me at any moment. 
Now, your amateur 
vocalist fills up all his 
spare time with sing- 
ing. In moments of 
inspiration , when 
music and ink were 
flowing from m y 
fountain - pen, this 
man might burst forth 
into "The Anchors 
Weighed " or " Annie 
Laurie J? ; then my 
springs of melody 
would dry up. This 
kind of man sings him- 
self to bed, and sings 
when he gets up ! 
He will certainly stng 
in his bath. These 
keen amateur vocal- 
ists warble subcon- 
sciously ; they don T t 
know when they're 
doing it. So I firmly 
but courteously (as 
I have said) declined 
to accept the hos- 

Shrimpington pos- 
sessed only two hotels 
— the Belle Vue on the Esplanade and the 
Station Hotel. As the first was closed during 
the winter months, I went to the Station 
Hotel. It was a trifle forbidding at first sight. 



" Is there any shunting during the night ? " 
I asked the landlord. 

" Hardly any, sir," he replied ; " at least, 
not enough to disturb anyone. You'll find 
the place as quiet as mice." 

I felt a little dubious, and said I would try 
it for one night, and, if I liked it, might stay 
a week or so. At this the landlord's face lit 
up ; I supposed he did not get many visitors 
in November. Having asked for a table to be 
placed in my room for the purposes of my 
work and ordered a fire — for it was very cold 
— I ate a light supper and had a look round 
the hotel. The coffee-room, where I had 
supped, was a fairly large, dingy sort of room. 
On the table stood several coloured wine- 
glasses with a serviette in each, keeping 
guard over a cheap-looking epergne con- 
taining imitation flowers. The table-cloth 
had seen better days. 

Half-a-dozen mahogany chairs with seats 
of horsehair, a rickety sideboard, a few 
oleographs in dingy gilt frames, and a large 
Hearts of Oak certificate on the walls com- 
pleted the ensemble. There was a bar with a 
bagatelle-board in it, at which some three 
or four of the Shrimpington ratepayers were 
amusing themselves. My bedroom was on 
the first floor, with an outlook on to the 

There was nothing more of interest, so I 
unpacked my bag and arranged my writing 
materials on the table ready for the morning. 
Then I took a brisk walk along the sea-front, 
past the Belle Vue — a gloomy place — 
exchanged a few words with a coastguard, 
who regarded me with evident astonishment, 
as if wondering what could possibly bring me 
to Shrimpington in November, returned to 
the hotel, and went to bed. 

I was tired after my journey, and needed 
sleep ; but I am accustomed to a fairly 
soft bed, and this one was like a board. 
It was the hardest and most unyielding bed 
it has ever been my lot to lie upon. The 
bed-clothes, too, were scanty and had no 
margin for tucking in, and there was a 
decidedly clammy feeling about the sheets 
which made me nervous. I got out of bed 
and applied the looking-glass test to see if 
they were damp, but as the glass did not 
blur I concluded they were all right. (I 
learnt afterwards that I should have warmed 
the glass.) 

Getting back to bed — this time with my 
rug and great-coat on top of me — I tried to 
believe I was in my cosy flat at home. But 
I never could sleep with windows rattling ! 
The rhythm is so spasmodic and annoying. 

I had to get out again and wedge the frames 
with matches. I was just getting acclimatized 
to the sheets, and was in the act of dozing off, 
when a violent gust of wind blew a lot of soot 
down the chimney and filled the room with 
smoke ! I rang the bell, and when the 
chamber-maid appeared (she was not attrac- 
tive), I asked her to rake out the fire and open 
the windows. In the next few minutes my 
music-paper had been blown all over the 
floor, and the room was as cold as an ice- 
house. I got up, picked up the paper, 
closed the windows — the match work had 
to be done all over again — and returned 
to bed. 

By this time my temper was getting ruffled, 
but I consoled myself with the thought that 
as my blood was up I should probably warm 
the bed sooner. In half an hour or so I 
dozed off again, when " Bang-bang ! shriek- 
shriek ! bang -bang ! " The shunting had 

For the next twenty minutes it was as if 
a heavy goods train was trying to leave the 
metals and mount the platform. To simulate 
sleep under such conditions was a mockery, 
so I rose, lit the gas, put on my dressing- 
gown and overcoat, wrapped the rug round 
my feet, and started to map out my work 
for the morning. By doing this overnight, 
I reasoned, I need not get up so early to- 

But everything in the room was smothered 
in soot, so I only spoiled several sheets of 
music-paper, and when I became so thoroughly 
chilled that my teeth chattered and my knees 
trembled, I gave up the idea and went back 
to bed. But not to sleep — oh, dear, no, for 
by this time I was so wide awake that a bed 
of swansdown and a fairies' lullaby would not 
have wooed me to slumber. I tossed about 
from side to side, the bed-clothes following. 
A dozen times I shook the pillow and gathered 
up my coat from the floor, but all to no 
purpose. Sleep was a stranger to me that 
awful night. 

When the damp grey morning came, I 
rose, dressed, made my way downstairs, 
unbolted the front door, and went out. It 
was about seven o'clock, and I met a postman. 
I asked him if the postmaster would be up 
so early, and he said that he had just gone 
along the front. So I hastened in that direc- 
tion in the hope of overtaking him. He was 
singing to himself " When Other Lips" when 
I caught him up, and greeted me with " Good 
morning ; hope you slept well. Found the 
place comfortable ? Hope the trains didn't 

bother y6tit ma 





I related my experiences, and he said 
he was very sorry — commercial travel- 
lers had always spoken well of the 
hotel— and ended by renewing his in- 
vitation to me to stay with him. 

" Our house is small, but you will 
find it quiet. The children are at 
school most of the day, and they go to 
bed early/ 1 

This sounded 
plausible, so I 
thanked him and 
said that if he was 
sure it would not 
cause any incon- 
venience, I should 
be glad to come. 
We walked to the 
end of the Espla- 
nade and along the 
principal streets of 
the town ^ my friend 
pointing out the 
beauties of the clock 
tower, the skating rink, and 
the Working Men's Club, 
until it was time for break- 

" You will take breakfast 
with US) of course ? " said 
the postmaster. 

I did not relish the idea 
of taking it at the hotel, so 
I readily agreed, and soon 
we arrived at the post - office. 

The dwelling-house, a neat-looking three- 
storeyed building, adjoined the post-office, and 
at breakfast I was introduced to the post- 
master's wife, a healthy-looking woman of 
about forty, a girl aged thirteen, two sturdy 
boys aged nine and seven respectively, and 
a pale young man, Mr. Seedling, the lodger, 

" My husband tells me you have not had 
a restful night," said Mrs. Bullet, <£ but you 
will be nice and quiet here, and we will try 
to make you comfortable. And I feel sure 
Mr, Seedling won't mind sleeping with the 
boys for a few nights." 

Mr, Seedling muttered something in re- 
sponse which did not suggest extreme joy 
at the proposition. I said I was afraid I was 
putting them to a great deal of inconvenience, 
but Mrs, Bullet assured me that my presence 
would make no difference, and that I should 
be " treated as one of the family,'' 

Family life w r as not what I had come for. 
But they meant well, these good people, and 
I should only have to be sociable at meal-times. 

After breakfast I went back to the hotel 


7. ■ *.<-. 


to pay my bill and get my bag. The landlord 
seemed surprised that I had risen so early. 
He hoped it wasn't because of the chimney ; 
he would have it sw r ept at once. 

'■ Thanks/' 1 said, " but don't trouble on 
my account, for I find I have to return to 
London sooner than I expected,'* 

I chose the mild deception in preference 
to the true explanation, because anything 
like a bother annoys me. 

I started very well in my new lodging, 
and by teatirne had made some progress with 
my work. The children, too, seemed to like 
me, and after tea 1 promised to take them for 
a walk. This project, however, was spoiled 
by the rain, so Mr. Bullet suggested a little 
music. We therefore adjourned to the draw- 
ing-room, where I listened to " Dorothy's 
latest piece/ 1 and accompanied Mr. Bullet 
in several of his favourite songs. Then Mr, 
Seedling appeared, and w T as induced to exhibit 
his skill on the mandoline— my pet aversion 
— after which I played some little pieces of 
my own, and tried to explain the mysteries 

n f ' rn m nn^ i H rtrf ^ ' 3 ' n 3 1 T TCnT\ 




After an hour spent in this way I begged 
to be excused, and retired to my room for 
work* I was just in the middle of a rather 
complicated piece of part-writing, when I 
heard sounds from the piano. It was " Home, 
Sweet Home/' with a " four-a-penny " left- 
hand part. This immortal composition did 
not blend with the work I was engaged upon. 
It was in a totally different style and another 
key. Feeling huffy at being disturbed, I 
went downstairs, and meeting Mrs, Bullet 
in the passage I asked if the rain had stopped. 

"I'm afraid it's set in for a wet evening/ 1 
she replied, 

" Is that your daughter playing ? " I 
timidly inquired, 

" Oh, yes j she is having a lesson. Doesn't 
she get on nicely ? " 

I said she seemed to have a decided talent 

This was a rash thing to say ; though, 
truth to tell, I must own to being very fond 
of children— that is, when I have not any 
work on hand, and always providing they 
have clean fingers and are under proper 

The boys no sooner heard that I would 
play with them than they were upon me like 
an avalanche. We would play at " bears." 
Why they used the plural I could not see, as 
apparently there was to be only one bear— 
they were to be my keepers ! It was no use 
protesting that bears were never ridden ; I 
had to trawl along the passage on all fours, 
with one boy on my back and the other 
urging me on with a stick, 

I was the first to get tired, and, as a means 
of escape, invited them up to my room that 
I might read to them until the music-lesson 


for music, and asked how long the lesson 
would last. 

" Only half an hour, and then it will be 
all quiet for you," she replied. 

" Please don't think of me/' I said. " I can 
amuse the boys until their bedtime," 

was over, I prided myself on being a very 
good reader to children — at least, my married 
sister has told me so — but on this occasion I 
did not seem to hit the mark. The children's 
attention seemed drawn to my music-paper, 
*'\\TUMI^ a long 



ruler ! " " What are all those funny little 
dots ? Jl etc. I explained that I was com- 
posing music, and said if they would keep 
their hands off it, perhaps I would play it to 
them to-morrow. 

" Now run away ; it must be nearly bed- 
time, and Dorothy has finished her music- 
lesson 3 " I said, giving them each a penny as a 
token of good faith, 

At this they backed out of the room very 
reluctantly and left me in peace. With a 
sigh I recommenced work, I had done about 
six bars when I was interrupted by sounds of 
crying, smacking, and all the noise incidental 
to the children having a bath, I read the 
paper until this 
operation was over 
and the children 

had gone to bed. ( *£^t 

I was in the act of y^^^pn 

beginning again ^ Jf*f / 

when a faint metal- //\\ ■ &X* 

lie sound came up /*\ J^SV 
from the room 


below. I listened. Yes, it was the 
mandoline ! 

This was too much, I went downstairs, 
and found the postmaster in the kitchen 
cleaning his bicycle. 

" Mr, Bullet," I said, " I am sorry to leave 
you, but I can't work in your house. I have 
so much to do and so little time to do it in 
that — well, I can't write musrc with that 
mandoline going/ 1 

" Oh, he'll soon stop ; don't mind him/' 
said Mr. Bullet. 

" But I do mind him," I said, " and I 
really cannot " 

" He's only playing because it's too wet to 
go out, and I can't offend him, You see, he 
gave up his room to oblige you," said Mr. 

This line of reasoning suddenly reminded 

me of my position. Here was I, a guest in 
this good man's house, making myself a 
nuisance to everybody just because I wanted 
to Lie quiet. It was preposterous, I apolo- 
gized, and said I had been overwrought 
through not having had enough sleep the 
night before. I would go for a walk and get 
some air, when doubtless I should feel better, 
I took my coat and umbrella and went out, 
feeling 1 had made a fool of myself. And 
then it occurred to me how much the average 
man dislikes quiet. Make a noise, and people 
will love you. Be as noisy as you can during 
life — you must be quiet when you are dead. 
And I realized why hospitals are always built 
in the noisiest parts of a 
town ; even invalids want 
noise, for it reminds them 
they are still alive. And 
all the thousand and one 
discordant sounds that 
make up the pande- 
monium inseparable to 
a big city — they are a 
necessity ; we couldn't 
exist without them. And 
yet Ij a miserable worm, 
was fretting and fuming 
because I could not 
burrow somewhere and 
be quiet ! True, it was 
a necessity for my work ; 
but I would give up 
composing, and become 
a boiler-maker. 

When I got back to 
the house everybody 
except the postmaster 
had gone to bed. As I 
went in he was singing, 
let me like a soldier fall." I bade 


(< Good night. " I was 
[ could have slept on 

him a sorrowful 
so tired I believe 

a steam roundabout. But the bed I was 
in had a wire mattress with a very pro- 
nounced sag in the middle. Now, I could 
never sleep in a hammock, and it is always a 
matter of wonder to me how sailors can prefer 
one. I always like to lie straight out, not 
doubled up in the shape of a " V." To make 
matters worse, there was an unmistakable 
snore proceeding from somewhere. These 
conditions caused my sleep to be fitful, to 
say the least, and certainly not refreshing. 
About two o'clock a violent concussion on 
the ceiling above gave me a start* It was 
only Georgie falling out of bed ! 

At five the postmen began to assemble, and 
for thfel Hfc^ElttiHrttl^ the adjoining 





post-office in their hobnailed boots. Later 
on they appeared to be playing football with 
the mail -bags. 

When the last postman had started on his 
round the children 
above me began 
to get up, and for 
some moments 
seemed to be 
vaulting over 
their beds. Then 
I heard the 
lodger's voice 
ordering them to 
be quiet, I 
thought this very 
kind of him, and 
forgave him the 
mandoline inci- 
dent, The chil- 
dren's dressing 
seemed to last 
an interminable 
time, but eventu- 
ally I heard them 

go downstairs, 
Vol. iiv.-ia. 

After a fairly peaceful interval, during which 
1 supposed they were having breakfast } there 
was a clattering up and down the passage, 
followed by a hanging of the street door, 
and I surmised that the children had gone to 
school. 1 had intended fining up ear '> f an ^ 
making up for lost time, but I was too 
far gone for any such effort, I heard 
Mr. Seedling get out of bed and dress \ 
1 look part (sympathetically) in all his 
movements. We stood on one leg 
together, knocked our shins on the bed- 
post together, searched on the 
floor for a eollar-stud together, 
fetched the shaving water 
together, cut our chins to- 
gether, muttered a blessing 
together, and finally went 
downstairs together. Then 
I turned over and slept I 
At half - past nine Mrs, 
Bullet knocked on my door to say the break- 
fast was getting cold* I crawled out of bed 
with a feeling that my spine was permanently 
bent ? and dressed myself in very slow time. 
Not much was said at the breakfast-table, 
and when the meal was over 1 packed my 
bag, bade my host and his wife an affectionate 
adieu, and caught the first train to London. 

The composition was finished in time. The 
critics said it revealed a depth of 
hitherto unsuspected in me ! 






: < 







\ m 



Original from 

MUCH WAS SAllUliWflfelK^lMftllUwtfl' 

The Longest Day of Her Life. 


Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo. 

h was the longest day of 


lift, and yet it contained very 
little action ; nearly all of it 
was thought. 

It opened with a quarrel 
between her and her husband. 
While brushing her nice dark 
hair she reproached him for his callous indif- 
ference about her young cousin Dick ; and 
he j appearing and disappearing on the 
threshold of his dressing-room, defended 
himself sternly. 

" Why not ? ** she said, brushing with 
accelerated vigour. " You know Sir George ; 
you brag of being an old friend. Then why 
should you refuse to employ your influence ? " 
il Because I am not fond of asking favours," 
" You mean, for other people ! You never 
mind asking favours for yourself." 
" You have no right to say that" 
" Ah } you don't like the truth," And 
Ethel brushed her hair with furious energy. 
" You are to say anything to me, however 
rude and brutal ; but if 1 — if / venture 

" Ethel " — and Jack's tone changed from 
hardness and weight to a mocking lightness — 
" you probably don't realize the deteriorating 
effect of these tantrums- To oblige me ? look 
at your face In the glass." 

" I shall see the face of a very unhappy 
woman — a woman who sometimes wishes she 
was dead." 

" Oh, don't talk such theatrical rubbish ! " 

Outside the windows there were only 
pretty things to see — blue sky above the 
heights of Wimbledon ; Coombe Woods 
sleeping in the July sunshine ; a peep of the 
broad avenue, the gabled roofs, the neat 
little gardens of what nearly all the residents 
agreed in thinking a suburban paradise. 

And inside the house everything was 
pretty also. The sunlight, growing brighter 
every minute, flashed into the spacious 
upper landing, the square hall, and the well- 
proportioned lower rooms ; it lit up the 
colours of hearth-rugs, the glaze of blue and 
white tiles, the lustre of brass grates ; it 
shone upon taste^ comfort, even modest 

luxury ; it showed, altogether, the happy, 
prosperous state of affairs that caused their 
neighbours to speak of Mr. and Mrs. Jack 
Ingram as a couple whose good fortune 
anybody might envy. 

Now the envied couple bad come down- 
stairs to breakfast in their pretty dining-room, 
and , so long as the parlour-maid remained 
with them, there was a truce to the quarrel. 

n Have some omelette, Ethel, or kedgeree ? " 

" Kedgeree, please." 

They ought to have been happy. The sun- 
light seemed so gay and cheerful ; their back 
garden was full of flowers ; branches of trees 
were gently swaying, birds were singing, and 
through the open casements a gentle air came 
creeping from the hillside to soften their 
hearts, And they themselves looked so nice 
— he a tall, rather handsome man of thirty- 
five, clean- shaven , strong-featured, with hair 
brushed back from a respectably broad 
forehead ; and she a dark-haired, blue-eyed, 
really attractive young woman of twenty- 

Directly the parlour-maid withdrew hos- 
tilities were resumed, 

u So now " — and he snorted contemp- 
tuously — i( you are going to make it a crime 
if I refuse to carry your whole family on my 
shoulders/ ' 

u Oh, no, Jack ! I have learnt in these 
five years how very little carrying power your 
shoulders possess/' 

It was as though there had been a poison 
in their blood. They stung themselves and 
each other ; they took a mad pleasure in 
inflicting pain j their eyes glowed whenever 
they thought of something peculiarly unkind 
that could be said next, But with him there 
was all the time something querulous and 
pathetic f rather than purely wrathful 3 a 
droop of the lip, a tremulousness of the voice, 
a shakiness of the hand — even when he was 
putting in his very nastiest strokes, 

14 I married you, not your relations. Heaven 
knows, I've done enough for them already ; 
but if you choose t * r m ike them an unceasing 

nu lW/fRSitY OF MICHIGAN _ . . „ 

Then came an outburst from Ethel, He 


J 39 

had done nothing for her family, except 
slight them j insult them, make of them the 
ready weapon with which he struck at his 

Jack got up from his ruined breakfast and 
moved about the room. The omelette tasted 
as if it had been made of election eggs, the 
milk was sour, the tea bitter, and the toast 
smelt of dust and ashes. 

Throughout the summer there had been 

" Exactly what I say, My life has become 
one long torment. You are always horrid to 
me — systematically cruel to me, and to all I 
love; and I can't — I won't — go on with it." 

This was like the firing of a big gun, after 
which it seems futile to use field-pieces and 
musketry. They stared at each other in 
silence, Ethel looking pale and rather 
frightened, jack looking pale and completely 


it's your own kault, I've tkikd — heaven knows iVe tried; but 
i can't hear it." 

so many ol these senseless wrangles ; but 
to-day the quarrel intensified, steadily 
gathered energy, until it culminated with 
explosive force in Ethel's astounding declara- 
tion : — 

11 Jack, this decides me. It's your own 
fault. I've tried — Heaven knows I've tried ; 
but I can't bear it. I can't go on living with 

y™£ A J by jQOQlC 

H What do you mean by that ? " 

" Ethel ! " After a breathing pause he 
spoke quietly and seriously, almost apolo- 
getically, M You know — you must know — 
all that you are to me," 

u Noj I don't, You liked me once, but it's 
over and done with ■ otherwise you couldn't 
treat me so hatefully/' 

" My dear girl, married life is a matter of 
give and , tiike. Each partner should make 
allo^ltftf£«t^i^UEiU«6AM things," 



" I understand too well." 

Then he distinctly expressed regret for 
ever having been harsh or snappish, and he 
pleaded that the cause of such mistakes was 
his notoriously b&d health. 

" Then why don't you consult a doctor ? " 
She did not for a moment believe in his ill- 
health. It was the excuse that he always 
made. " Dr. Arnold says you're all right. 
But if you don't trust his judgment, go and 
see some London specialist." 

" Oh, no/' he said, wearily. " Doctors 
can't help me." 

" Not if there's nothing the matter with 

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed 

" Thank you, Ethel, for this remarkable 
display of your sympathy." 

Then, after a few moments' hesitation, 
she proposed that they should go straight to 
London and obtain the highest medical 
opinion on his case. She had hesitated 
because of a somewhat important afternoon 
engagement, but she decided that the engage- 
ment must be cancelled. It seemed now that 
the thing of paramount importance was to 
march off her husband as though he were 
a naughty child, and to watch and hear a 
famous physician making him look supremely 
foolish. Yes, she would deprive him at once 
and for ever of this flimsy excuse fpr incessant 

His reluctance to undertake a useless and 
costly excursion merely made her more 
obstinately determined to carry the point. 
And at last she carried it. 

" Very well," he said, fretfully, and his 
lips drooped. " I'll go, since you are good 
enough to say that it will relieve your mind." 

" It will, enormously. And now I'll ask 
Dr. Arnold who's the cleverest man in the 
whole of London." 

Next minute she had put on her burnt- 
straw hat, swung a gauze scarf round her 
neck, and w^ hurrying along the avenue. 
On either side of the plane trees stood all 
the little houses, with their little gardens, 
gabled roofs, and fantastic porches — all so 
neat and trim, but each perhaps holding its 
small and compact tragedy of thwarted hope 
and disappointed love. 

Dr. Arnold seemed surprised when she 
explained her errand* He thought that she 
need not be anxious. Certainly her husband 
suffered from nerves and liver, but then who 
doesn't ? However, another opinion could 
be obtained, and he, Dr. Arnold, would not 
be huffed. Of course not. 

" As you say, it will relieve your mind. 
Well, then, Mrs. Ingram, I advise you to 
take him to Dr. Haywarth, No. 261, Welbeck 
Street. Yes, Haywarth will be the man. 
And I'll write a letter — for you to give 
Haywarth. And I'll telegraph, too, to let 
him know you are coming." 

Dr. Arnold wrote the letter and made out 
his telegraphic message. 

" Perhaps you'll kindly send the telegram? " 

" Yes, I'm going to the post-office." 

" And now may I offer a word of advice 
on my own account ? " Dr. Arnold looked 
at his charming visitor gravely but very 
kindly. " Free gratis," and he smiled. 
" Haywarth will give you a good two guineas' 
worth, but he doesn't know your husband 
as well as I do, and he doesn't know you 
either. You are both highly-strung, nervy 
people, and what you both ought to avoid 
is worrying yourselves needlessly. The world 
is large. Try change of scene and change of 
air. Run away from worry." 

Ethel listened meekly, and understood 
without resentment that Dr. Arnold had 
penetrated some of her domestic secrets. 
It did not matter. He had changed from 
a doctor into a friend during that period 
which she always spoke of and thought of 
as " her great trouble." 

At the post-office she sent off the telegram 
to Dr. Haywarth, and then wrote and sent 
another one — to a Mr. Cyril Brett : — 

" To-day's arrangement unavoidably post- 
poned. — E." 

It was a slow train that stopped at nearly 
every station, and all the way to Waterloo 
she was thinking.* 

A neighbour had got into their compart- 
ment, and he and Jack were deep in talk 
about local topics. From time to time she 
glanced at them, and thought that they were 
the two most uninteresting men on the face 
of the broad earth. 

Yet one of them was the man that she 
had loved with all her heart. She thought 
of those bygone days, when the sight of him 
thrilled her, when he seemed gloriously hand- 
some as well as appallingly clever, when she 
knelt by her bedside in her common home 
and prayed that he might give her his love 
and make her his wife. She thought of her 
own pride when the prayer had been granted, 
of the congratulations of other people, of 
the rapture in the home circle. 

" Fancy ! " mamma had said. " Just fancy 
our E. winning such a prize ! " 

The fact was that the family considered 



Mr. Jack Ingram " a cut above them." He 
was well-connected, a gentleman at large, 
with an income that rendered professional 
labours unnecessary, and, further than this, 
he was almost what is called " a celebrity." 
He had written a book, he contributed 
articles to learned reviews, his photograph 
had appeared in illustrated newspapers. 

But somehow with Jack nothing ever came 
to anything. He wrote no second book ; he 
just settled down as a muddling sort of 
literary student, instead of being an active 
producer, and gradually he adopted the 
carpingly critical tone of the disappointed 
man who recognizes his own failure and sneers 
at everybody else's success. And it was the 
same story in regard to matters of less 
moment. His smashes and drives at lawn- 
tennis used to be awful and overpowering, 
while now he sent everything into the net ; 
he played a good game at golf, and now his 
handicap had been put up to eighteen ; he 
had rowed in a college boat, and yet at their 
last river picnic he caught a crab, and was 
frankly mocked by that boy, Cyril Brett. 
He danced beautifully, and now he had 
grown clumsy in the old dances, and was 
too lazy to learn the new ones. He used to 
be full of life and gaiety ; now he was dull 
and prosaic, shunning fun, hating frolic, 
bringing to every festive gathering a glum 
face and a silent tongue. 

But, worst of all, his bad temper ! It was 
that which had worn out her and her love 
together. And his pitiful excuses, his harp- 
ings on nervous debility, weak digestion, 
sleeplessness — something unmanlike, con- 
temptible, in such hypochondriacal twaddle ! 

Then she thought of her great grief, of 
those two empty rooms — rooms furnished and 
made ready, but never used. She raised 
her newspaper to hide her face, because her 
eyes had filled with tears, as they always did 
when anything recalled her great grief. Jack 
had been kind to her before her baby was 
born, and kind after her baby died. But that 
was three years ago. She hardened her heart. 

He did not value her. He had said that 
she was witty and amusing, but now he let 
her see that her poor little efforts after 
facetiousness bored him. He praised other 
women, admired their frocks — never hers. 
He pretended to delight in hearing her sing, 
but he never wanted to hear her sing now. 
He had confessed one night that " Good-bye, 
Summer " gave him a headache. That 
speech was as monstrous a cruelty as the 
slitting of a nightingale's throat. She had 
ceased to sing after that. 

He neglected her ; he threw her on her own 
resources. He never asked where she was 
going when she went out, or where she had 
been when she came in. Her doings did not 
interest him. 

The train stopped again, and she heard his 
voice, louder and more insistent, as he talked 
to their neighbour. 

" If you ask me, they've made a hideous 
fiasco of the fifth green." He was speaking 
with intense earnestness, and his voice 
became harsh and grating. " I warned them 
last February. My knowledge and experience 
had taught me that it is madness to believe 
any worm-killer can be safely " 

There ! He was interested now. That 
was a good example ! And she thought of 
him with bitterness. A dull and incompetent 
person, fatuously conceited, rigidly self- 

The train moved slowly on, and her thoughts 
took wings, lifted her from the cushioned seat, 
and flew far away with her. She was thinking 
of life and of youth, the spell and fascination of 
moonlit nights, the glamour that hangs over 
unknown paths that are trodden in darkness, 
the invincible human craving for new and 
untried sensations. She thought of that boy — 
that extremely youthful young man — and of 
her throb of indignation on the night when 
he held her in his arms and kissed her lips. 

It was the softest, warmest night in June 
— after the river picnic — and they were 
crossing a field where hay had been cut ; 
they two together, and the others walking on 
ahead through the black patches of shadow 
and the white spaces of moonlight. " Mr. 
Brett, how dare you ! How dare you ! " In 
imagination she could hear again the thrilling 
anger of her whispered words. 

Immediately, and still more so during the 
next few days, she had put the young man 
back in his proper place. She lectured him 
severely before she consented to overlook h's 
offence. And he had never offended again. 
When he called upon her, or when she hap- 
pened to meet him out walking, they just 
talked sentiment — vague regret, unformulated 
repinings — he never going beyond the limits 
of conjecture as to their fate if only she were 
free, and she remaining firm in the solid fact 
that she was not free. 

No one could say that, if she had been 
unfaithful in thought, she had been unfaithful 
in deeds — that is, in big deeds. But how 
would it all end ? 

The train had passed Vauxhall without her 
being aware of its stopping. She glanced at 
Jack again, and he seemed old — going bal cL 



all the freshness of youth vanished already, 
ugly lines about his eyes, a man that no one 
could fall in love with now. And he would 
grow older and older, and nothing would ever 
come to open their lives — no love, no fame, 
no wealth ; they would be perpetual prisoners 
in their commonplace villa. Because of a 
marriage ring she was tied to him till death. 

As they approached the physician's door 
a patient came out of it. He was a grey- 
haired, elderly man, apparently quite a 
humble person in a suit of working clothes, 
and he brushed against Ethel's pretty muslin 
dress as he passed. He was staring straight 
ahead, not looking to the right or to the 
left, and something in the expression of his 
unseeing eyes startled Ethel. 

" Jack," she said, with her hand on her 
husband's arm, " did you see that man's 
face ? " 

" No. What about it ? " 

" It was like the face of a man who has 
received his death sentence." Then she gave 
a shiver and laughed. " At any rate, he 
looked really ill." 

She could not refrain from that little dig at 
the person who merely pretended to be ill. 
This was to be her hour of triumph, and she 
meant to enjoy it. 

But the visit to famous Dr. Haywarth 
proved disappointing, enervating, fruitless of 
any immediate results. 

He was a solemn, forbidding kind of man, 
with an odd blending of fussiness and absent- 
mindedness in his manner when he began 
to talk to the visitors. 

" Yes, yes — just so." And he got up from 
the table at which he had been writing. 
" Good day to you, Mr. Ingram — and Mrs. 
Ingram. I have read the letter which you 
kindly sent in to me — from, ah, Dr. Arnold. 
Yes, yes — I am quite ready," and he hastily 
arranged the papers on his blotting-pad. 
u And now, if you please, Mrs. Ingram, I will 
see your husband alone." 

" Oh, but I should like to stay and hear 
your verdict." 

" You shall come in afterwards. Yes, yes 
—that will be better." 

The butler was standing at the open door 
of the consulting-room, and Ethel felt con- 
strained to allow herself to be ushered back 
to the waiting-room. 

This was not what she had bargained for. 
The best part of her treat was spoilt already. 
She wanted to listen to the physician's very 
own words and watch Jack's discomfiture as 
he, too, listened to them. Now it would 

be easy for Jack to recover his self-possession. 
He would have time to pull himself together. 

She glanced at the ugly black clock on the 
draped mantel-shelf, opened and shut two 
or three preposterous books on the big table, 
then sat on a chair near a window and 
drummed irritably with a high-heeled shoe. 
The vast, dull, depressing room was empty, so 
she could make herself quite at home. 

Presently her heels became motionless. 
She was thinking again. 

What would be the end of all the note- 
writing, appointment - making, and senti- 
ment-talking with Cyril ? Repressed tears 
moistened her eyelids. She was too lonely ; 
her life was unbearable. She could not go on 
with it for ever. If not this one, then some- 
one else eventually. Nothing to hold her 
in restraint — no child, no truly unbreakable 
tie. Sooner or later she might do what so 
many have done — go away to disgrace with 
a lover, or stay at home in infamy until 

But if she were free ! Suppose this doctor 
has found something wrong. Suppose he is 
even now saying words that promise emanci- 
pation. Unbidden, swift mental pictures 
came thronging — the sick bed, the widow's 
dress, the whole pageant of woe — freedom. 

She shivered, and turned from the window 
to look at the clock. Surely they were being 
a long time about it in the other room ! 

She moved to the table, sat down there, 
and, taking up one of the books, observed 
that her hand was trembling. She looked at 
the clock nervously. How long had Jack 
been closeted with the doctor ? It seemed 
an incredible time. 

And as the heavy minutes dragged by she 
became more and more nervous. Oh, there 
must be something wrong ! When the butler 
came to tell her that she might return to the 
other room, he found her pacing to and fro 
in an agitated manner. 

" Well," she asked, anxiously, almost 
breathlessly, " what is it ? Please tell me 
everything— don't keep me in suspense." 

Jack was looking much as usual, not par- 
ticularly foolish, as he fumbled in his waist- 
coat pocket for the two sovereigns and the 
two shillings. Dr. Haywarth was seated at 
his desk, and it seemed to her when he turned 
that his face was preternaturally grave. 

" Excuse me," he said, fussily. " I am 
writing a letter to — ah — Dr. Arnold — with 
a note." And he went on writing. " Yes, 
yes — if you'll allow me — I'll finish my letter, 
and then perhaps Mr. Ingram will take it 
back with him. and deliver it*" 



But Ethel could not contain herself. She 
asked eager questions., until Dr. Haywarth, 
turning with a flustered air, begged her not 
to interrupt him. Then at last he accom- 
plished his task, hurriedly picked up and 
folded pieces of paper ? put them in an en- 
velope, and rose from the desk. 

" Well ? ,J said Ethel again. 

" Here wc are^ then/' said Dr. Haywarth. 

exchange for the sovereigns and shillings, 
shook hands } bowed. 

Outside in the street Ethel took her hus- 
band's arm and pressed it, 
" Now, what did he say ? " 
" Well, really very little, Ethel." 
" But tell me— whatever it was." 
" 0h T well — 1 was to take care of myself. 
It amounted to that — as I understood it. 


"This is for our good friend Arnold, and he JJut 111 tell you all about it later on this 

will convey my ideas as to treatment and so evening/ 1 

forth. And now — the fact is, I am due at " This evening ! What do you mean ? 

the hospital You will, I am sure, excuse You are not going t.o leave me now ? " 

me." Truly, hb^Wir^it 1 \vas what Jack meant 

He gave the letter to Jack Ingram in to doUMKEffeJiflftifl^ apologeti- 



cally that, having wasted half the day, he 
would use the rest of it for business. 

" Business ! What business ? " 

" There are one or two things I could 
tackle now that I'm up here." 

" Very well/' said Ethel, quietly and coldly. 

" And, as you are going back, you might 
take this precious letter, and hand it over 
to Arnold." 

" Oh, certainly." 

" Then good-bye, dear. I'll be home to 
dinner without fail." ' 

She walked away, down Welbeck Street 
and into Wigmore Street, swelling with 
indignation. Jack must have plainly seen 
her anxiety, her affectionate concern, and 
yet he had deserted her — had just cast her 
adrift, to calm down unassisted as best she 
could. That was like Jack. 

Regard for him had brought her to London, 
but he could not even escort her to Waterloo 
— could not even remember that it was 
nearly one o'clock, and that gongs all over the 
universe were announcing the midday meal. 
He, of course, would lunch at his sumptuous 
club, and she thought of him established 
there, eating, drinking, chattering. Perhaps, 
she thought, bitterly, he would find another 
delightful companion with whom he could go 
on talking about worm-killers. 

She herself lunched at the restaurant of the 
illustrious drapers in Wigmore Street, and then 
dispatched a telegram — to Mr. Cyril Brett : — 

" You may come and see me any time 
after three. — E." 

She caught a good train from Waterloo, 
but, fast as it went, her thoughts travelled 
more rapidly. They flashed far into the past 
and far into the future. Then gradually they 
came back to the present, remained with her 
in the compartment, settled themselves on 
the envelope that she was holding in her 
ungloved hand. 

She knew that inside the envelope there lay 
a statement of the plain, indisputable fact 
that Jack had nothing the matter with him. 
Her strange dread — that baseless anxiety 
which for a few moments she generously 
entertained — had long since gone. This even- 
ing Jack would be forced to confess that Dr. 
Haywarth had found nothing wrong, although 
he would endeavour to gloze it over and per- 
suade her, if he could, that a verdict had been 
given in his favour. He would swear that 
this fussily arrogant physician had diagnosed 
a state of nerves that might justify any 
amount of ill-temper. And perhaps Dr. 
Arnold would back him up. 

But why should she wait until the evening 
to hear what either of them said, or to know 
the contents of this envelope ? The letter 
concerned her just as much as Jack — 
a thousand, a million times more, because 
perhaps the conduct of her whole future life 
depended on it. 

Suddenly a sense of her sufferings, an 
angry revolt against the manner in which 
she had been ignored, trampled on, both by 
Jack and Dr. Haywarth, moved her to 
decisive action. She boldly tore open the 

" Dear Dr. Arnold, — Many thanks for your 
note in re Mr. Ingram. I have gone into his 
case carefully, and I embody my views and 
suggestions in the enclosed memorandum." 

That was the letter — just polite flummery. 
Now for the memorandum. The real verdict 
would be in this. 

The wind blew in upon her flushed face, 
blowing her little forehead curls against the 
brim of her hat, making the gauze scarf fly 
out and flap noisily, as she looked at Dr. 
Haywarth's medical jargon. Just a half- 
sheet of note-paper, with the big words 
underlined, and the rest hastily, carelessly 
scribbled — not much for two guineas ! 

" Advanced aortic stenosis. Dilatation of 
the heart. Failing compensation. 

" Prognosis. Unfavourable. A sudden 
ending may be expected. At best, a few 
months only can be allowed. 

" Treatment. — Absolute rest. Removal from 
his present unsatisfactory surroundings, which 
appear detrimental to his comfort." 

The wind blew in upon her livid cheeks, 
retracted lips, and chattering teeth. She 
had grasped the full meaning of the verdict. 
It was a death sentence. 

She did not observe how the porters shouted 
at her when she nearly fell in getting out of 
the train before it came to rest at the plat- 
form, how the collector followed her a little 
way because she had not given up her ticket, 
or how two neighbours and a butcher's boy 
stared as she ran along the avenue. 

Now she was at Dr. Arnold's door, banging 
on it with one hand while she rang his bell 
with the other. 

" I want Dr. Arnold," she cried, breath- 
lessly. " I must speak to him without an 
instant's delay." 

But the doctor's maidservant could not 
comply with this excited demand. Dr. 
Arnold had received an urgent summons and 





seaside. He would not be back till quite 

" Oh, dear, what shall I do ? What shall 
I do ? " 

" Will you leave any message, ma'am ? " 
And the servant offered Mrs. Ingram a paper- 
block and a pencil. 

" No. Take me into his room, and let me 
write to him." 

" Yes. Step this way, ma'am." 

" Thank you. Leave me alone now." 

Ethel wrote a frantic, disconnected letter 
and tore it up ; tried again, and destroyed 
the second attempt, then burst into tears. 
Nearly an hour had passed, and a considerable 
inroad had been made upon Dr. Arnold's 
stock of stationery, before she completed her 
communication and packed it up in a large 
envelope with Dr. Haywarth's letter and 

" Yes, ma'am," said the maid, " I'll give 
it to him directly he returns." 

" Thank you," said Ethel, with a catch in 
her voice. 

She had implored Dr. Arnold to keep the 
appalling truth from Jack. She was ignorant 
as to medical etiquette or ethics, but she 
supplicated the doctor, for friendship's sake, 
to save her husband from a clear comprehen- 
sion of his impending doom. 

With bowed head and leaden footsteps she 
walked slowly home. The sun was shining 
on the red gables, on the roses in the front 
garden, on the copper tablet that decorated 
the garden gate with a silly name. Baveno ! 
The name was the only stupid thing about 
their dear, dear little home. A builder's 
name. No fault of Jack's ; he hated it as 
much as she did. She pushed the gate, and 
gave a little sob. Baveno ! 

" No, nothing, thank you." 

She was trying to hide her face from the 
parlour-maid. Lizzie must not see that she 
had been crying. She crawled upstairs to 
her bedroom, locked the door, sat down in 
a chintz-covered arm-chair, and the dead 
weight of the catastrophe descended upon her. 

She felt all cold and numb, making jerky 
sobs that sounded like hiccoughs, and with 
teeth that chattered at intervals. It was the 
horror of the thing taking possession of her. 
Doom ! A few months only ! Oh, he must 
not know — he should not know. But she 
must be brave and do her duty. And she 
thought of how she would guard him and 
watch over him during the remnant of his 
days. There might be other nurses, but no 
nurse could do for him what she would do. 
No, they should not take him from her. 

Vol xlv.-16 

Suddenly she grew hot, felt as if she was 
being stifled. A wave of shame had come 
sweeping through her brain. She thought 
of the physician's merciless words. " Re- 
moval from unsatisfactory surroundings, 
which are detrimental to his comfort." 

Then, with a stab of anguish, she recog- 
nized that the words were true. A nagging 
wife — can such a companion seem otherwise 
than detrimental to the comfort of a dying 
man ? A creature of moods and whims, 
who habitually thinks only of her own selfish 
pleasures, who bursts into shrewish protest 
if thwarted or controlled — can she persuade 
any stranger that she will in an hour change 
her whole character, transform herself into 
the calm saint who sits by sick beds and 
makes rough pillows smooth with one touch 
of a gentle hand ? 

The trained physician had infallibly read 
the secret of her restless, irritating ways. 
A single glance of those penetrating eyes 
had been sufficient. He had classed her 
among intrinsically worthless women. Jack 
had not betrayed her. He was too loyal to 
do that. 

" Yes, what is it ? " 

Lizzie, the parlour-maid, was tapping at the 
bedroom door. 

" Mr. Brett, ma'am, downstairs in the 

" Send him away," said Ethel, loudly, 
almost fiercely. " Send him away. I can't 
see him. I can't see anybody." 

She had forgotten his very existence. She 
moved across to a window, stood there, 
hidden behind the curtain, and presently she 
heard his voice down below among the roses. 

" Really — are you sure about it ? " And 
he chuckled idiotically. " Not a mistake, eh ? " 

" No, sir. The mistress — well, she isn't 
quite herself." 

Ethel, watching furtively, saw him tap the 
Baveno tablet with his cane, and then slouch 
through the gate. A pink-faced lout in white 
flannels — something that had once seemed 
charming because it stimulated one's vain 
imagination ; something that had become 
odious to the sight because it symbolized all 
one's treacherous folly. He disappeared, and 
at once was again forgotten. 

She was thinking of that characteristic 
droop at the corners of Jack's mouth, of the 
fretful note in his voice, the questioning 
quaver which sounded like the lamentation 
of a sick child, of the golf weakness, the 
tennis faults, the river crabs that she had 
attributed to sheer clumsiness or laziness — 

"tftavi^foAfir* 11 anyhow ' but . 



poignantIy ; maddeningly pathetic when one 
understood their real cause. 

Near at hand flowers glowed vividly. At 
a distance the Coombe Woods spread out their 
beauty in the afternoon sunlight ; the whole 
world seemed so beautiful. Oh, to be 
snatched away from ft — to turn cold, deaf, 
blind — to pass with one fluttered breath 
into eternal darkness ! Pity for him — melt- 
ing yet burning pity — filled her heart. 

She sank upon the floor, sobbed and 
writhed. These thoughts were insupportable. 
It seemed to her as if she herself would bear 
the guilt of all that was going to happen — 
as if by her impious attempts to forecast the 
future she had aroused the slumbering wrath 
of Destiny — as if in those cruel musings when 
she dared to imagine the possibility of widow- 
hood and freedom she had released vast 
implacable forces of Nature — the dark powers 
of unending wickedness that prowl invisible, 
ever watching and waiting for a chance to 
pounce and strike. 

" Ma'am — if you please, ma'am, I've 
brought you up some tea." 

It was Lizzie tapping at the door again, 
talking through the door about nice hot cups 
of tea, saying she would put the tray on a 
chair outside the door. 

" Go away," gasped Ethel. " Leave me 
alone. Go away." 

She lay face downwards, sprawling, clutch- 
ing, gurgling. Her shoulders moved un- 
ceasingly. Pity, horror, and remorse were 
shaking her to pieces. 

When at last she gathered herself together 
she knelt and prayed for a little while before 
rising to her feet. 

She must wash away the traces of tears. 
She must hide every sign of distress, speak in 
ordinarily calm tones, appear quite natural 
and untroubled. The looking-glass showed 
reddened circles round her eyes and a puffy, 
swollen nose. All this must be set right 
before Jack got home, or he might begin to 
question, doubt, and guess. 

She was calmer now, walking about the 
house, standing first in one and then in the 
other of the two empty rooms, coming down- 
stairs, looking at things here and there on 
the ground floor, and thinking all the time. 

They had chosen that sofa at the shop in 
the Tottenham Court Road ; the Sheraton 
bureau — her own private desk and writing 
place — he had bought at Bath ; they picked 
up those two vases at Lucerne during their 
honeymoon. This Japanese lantern was a 
fancy of hers — an expensive fancy. It had 

been good of him to gratify her craving for 
the lantern — especially good, when one con- 
sidered that he never cared for Oriental art. 

She went to her desk, sat down, and auto- 
matically opened drawers, pulled out old 
letters, untied strings, and scattered neatly 
arranged packets. She must do something 
to occupy herself — to prevent herself from 
thinking. Two hours more, at least, before 
she could expect to see him. 

The back garden was losing all its gay 
colours ; the house had thrown its shadow 
half-way across the lawn, and in the pearl- 
grey depths beneath motionless branches the 
flower-borders looked faint and dim. Inside 
and outside the house a strange stillness had 
fallen — disturbed only by the murmur of 
insects and the ticking of the hall-clock. As 
she listened to the dull beat of the clock she 
heard her heart beating tumultuously. 

Fear again — fear of the unknown, of 
immensity, of eternity. 

" Deliver us not into the bitter pains of 
eternal death." That was the Burial Service. 
It had come to her as the echo of words that 
she would have sworn she had forgotten — 
words spoken at her father's grave, heard 
then and never since — words that sink into 
the ear like drops of ice. 

She raised her hands and pressed the sides 
of her forehead. She must be calm for his 
sake. No more emotion, and, above all, no 
more of this craven fear. 

She began to read old letters, cherished and 
stored because they came from members of 
the family. She had suffered so grievously 
by reason of the loss of their writers' society, 
separation from mother, sisters, brothers, had 
caused so much pain, that she never had felt 
able to destroy the slightest scrawl that 
issued from the old home circle. Received 
two days ago, last year, at any time since her 
marriage, these letters, as they tumbled from 
their strings and confusedly piled themselves 
on the desk, seemed to symbolize her life 
itself, now of a sudden disarranged, over- 
turned, smashed into chaos. 

" Please thank Jack for the golf-clubs." 
That was a letter from Tom ages and ages 
ago. " He has supplied me, apparently, with 
a whole set ; and if he happens to have a bag 
to hold them, I shall be all there." 

" The hamper arrived safely." This was a 
line or two from Sybil. " It is awfully decent 
of you and Jack to come to the rescue." 

"Tell Jack that both suits fit Charles 
admirably." A long missive from mother. 
" It is very good of him to send the boots, 
too. I never dreamed that he would go out 




and buy a new pair. I only meant some old 
shoes that were not fine enough for his 
High-and-Mightiness. Pray thank him." 

How good he had been to her people — really 
and truly ! Grumbling a little now and then, 
but always responding generously to the 
covert or open appeal for assistance. These 
letters were full of acknowledgments. Yes, 
and how had they thanked him for such 
unfailing kindness ? Nearly always grudg- 
ingly, often with a sneer. " His High-and- 
Mightiness ! " That was an impertinence, 
even from mother to daughter. She tore up 
the long-treasured paper and tossed its 
fragments to the floor. 

But soon she felt once more the stabbing 
twinges that are caused by personal regret. 
Phrases of sympathy, encouragement, advice 
met her eyes again and again throughout the 
letters from mamma. 

" Sorry to hear Jack is as selfish as ever. 
I should like to give Jack a piece of my mind. 
I think you take things too easily. If we 
women don't assert ourselves, we quickly get 
pushed to the wall." And so on. 

Mother and the rest of them had never 
understood him. They were incapable of 
doing so. He was too refined, too highly 
polished and cultivated, to be comprehensible 
to such intelligences as theirs. And she 
thought, sadly and wearily, that it is no use 
refusing to recognize hard facts. Her people 
were common — as common, really, if measured 
by lofty standards, as the people who live in 
slums, who squabble at table, insult and 
forgive one another every minute, who run 
along the dirty roads when they hear a police- 
man's whistle, and dance on the pavement 
when a piano-organ stops the way. 

Poor dears ! Not their fault ! But it 
might have been better for her if, as a bride, 
she could have got right away from them. 
She might have been happier now if she had 
put them at a distance of a few hundred miles 
then. It is a fatal mistake to have your 
family so near that they can intermeddle in 
the most sacred things of your married life. 

It had been mean of her, as undignified as 
it was treacherous, to speak to them of Jack's 
failings. How could she have borne to 
accept, without protest, such expressions of 
pity as she had just read ? Too many of 
them to tear up. It would take too long to 
destroy all this evidence of her unworthiness. 
She put the letters back in the drawers, 
stuffed them in forcibly and scornfully, and 
sat with folded hands. 

The shadows in the garden were lengthening, 
deepening ; and in her thoughts grey depths 

had opened. Mother and sisters and brothers 
shrank smaller and smaller, became nothing, 
were gone. She thought and thought only of 
the man to whom she had bound herself, the 
lover who for a while had held the keys of . 
heaven, the father of her child. 

Thought and emotion blended now. The 
feelings as they arose in her breast were 
thoughts. She was feeling what she had 
felt in the five days of life that had been 
granted to their child — a yearning desire to 
protect the weak and helpless thing that she 
loved, to die if by her death it might live, to 
die for its sake a thousand times. And she 
would have died now to save her husband 
from the grip of doom. 

Nothing mattered. His anger, his queru- 
lousness, his silences, and his frowns were a 
part of himself. It was him that she wanted 
—not novelty, passionate, untried joy, or 
freedom with anyone else ; him, and no other 
— her own man-mate. 

She went to the railway-station to meet 
him, just as she used to do years before when 
Baveno was still a delightful toy to which he 
came hurrying back each time that he was 
forced to leave it for a few hours. 

She saw him at once, moving towards her 
through the crowd of meaningless figures, 
looking pale and sad, looking like the ghost 
of her happy past. 

" Jack ! Oh, Jack ! " 

She had taken his arm, and was pressing it 
against her side as they went down the 
covered slope to the avenue. 

" Let's walk slowly," she murmured. " I 
am sure you are tired." 

" Yes," he said, " I am rather tired. I've 
had a tiring day. I'll tell you about it when 
I've changed my clothes." 

" Oh, don't dress for dinner. Don't — don't 
fatigue yourself unnecessarily." 

But he would dress — he always would ; and 
to-night when he came down to her in the 
drawing-room she was thinking that this 
undeviating habit was but another of his 
many merits. How wives must suffer when 
husbands are careless in such matters, not 
loving soap and water, feeling as comfort- 
able in flannels or serge as in clean white 
shirts and silk-lined jackets ! 

" There," he said, cheerfully and bravely; 
" now for a piece of good news." And he 
explained that he had been all over London, 
to Hampstead and to Norwood, hunting that 
great Sir George, and at last securing his 
interest on behalf of Cousin Dick. " Sir 
George didn't absolutely promise, Ethel, but 




I know he'll throw his weight into our scale, 
and, honestly, I believe that Dick will get 
the job." 

" Oh, Jack, what — what can I say ? " 

The thought of his goodness overwhelmed 
her. in all these long hours he had been 
toiling to give her pleasure. 

" Nonsense. I was glad to take advantage 
of being on the spot, don't you know. When 
you spoke of it this morning— well, I just 
shirked the effort. That was all." 

The effort ! She trembled and drew in 
her breath. " Treatment : Absolute rest." 
Rushing here and there about the huge town, 
he might have dropped dead at any moment. 

" Dinner is ready/' said Lizzie, the parlour- 

They sat opposite to each other at the little 
round table exactly as they had sat night 
after night, and twice, when Lizzie's back 
was turned, she stretched her hand across 
to him and clasped his hand. When he 
praised the curried chicken she nearly broke 
down. But she must be brave. She ate 
of the curry, and it almost choked her. 

Then after dinner they sat together in the 
drawing-room, he in the deep arm-chair, she 
on the sofa, and it was all exactly like last 
night or the night before. He did not talk 
while he smoked his first two cigarettes ; he 
never did. After the second cigarette it was 
his custom to light a pipe and open a book. 

But to-night he did not do this. He came 
to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and 
looked down at her with a wonderful expres- 
sion in his eyes. 

" Ethel, my dear, I've been making reso- 
lutions — plans for the future." 

Ethel lowered her head, rapidly brought 
out a handkerchief, and blew her nose. 

" You have been a good wife to me." 

Her heart almost stopped beating. Did 
he know the truth ? 

" Yes, my pretty Ethel. It touched me 
when you spoke to Dr. Haywarth so anxiously. 
You would have cared — you would have 
really cared. But Haywarth was quite re- 

He did not know. She breathed again. 

" Haywarth says it is all my stupid nerves, 
and I am to diet myself. And, Ethel, I have 
made a vow to obey him." And gently 
patting her shoulder he quoted "Maud": 
" Shall I not take care of all that \ think, yea, 
even of wretched meat and drink, if I be 
dear to someone else, if I be dear " 

" Jack, please don't go on." 

" Very well. Only this. I made another 
vow. Ethel, Heaven help me, I'll be a better 

husband to you in the years to come. Now 
don't be a silly girl. My darling, don't cry." 

They sat side by side on the sofa, and the 
electric light shone upon all their pretty 
furniture, pictures, and knick-knacks, and it 
was as if every moment invisible bands were 
binding her more tightly to him. 

The evening wore on, and it seemed to her 
that this lamp-lit room was the one small 
shelter and refuge from the prowling powers 
of darkness. Unseen, but very near, draw- 
ing ever nearer, Death and Destiny were 
advancing towards their prey. She held her 
husband's hand in both of hers, and horror, 
grief, and love struggled for supremacy. 

" I say, Ethel ! " He had released his 
hand and was stretching himself. " I nearly 
dropped asleep. Sing something to me. 
You've been neglecting your music, haven't 
you ? " 

She had torn out the handkerchief, and 
she spoke from behind it. 

" I'll sing — if you wish it. But aren't you 
too tired ? Won't it make your head ache ? " 

" No — please sing." 

She seated herself at the piano, played a 
few bars, and began to sing. 

" Good-bye, summer. Good-bye, goo 

Goo Goo " 

She had broken down completely. Burst- 
ing into hysterical tears, she came back to 
the sofa, flopped upon her knees, and flung 
her arms round him. 

" Jack, my own Jack ! " She was clinging 
and gasping and sobbing. " I — I can't 
bear it. Oh, I can't bear it. I shall go mad. 
Oh, stay with me " 

Then the drawing-room door opened. It 
was Lizzie, meaning to announce Dr. Arnold, 
but being pushed aside by the visitor in his 
hurry to enter. 

" Mrs. Ingram, be calm. There is nothing 
to worry about. On my honour, it's all right. 
Ingram, may I speak to your wife by her- 
self ? " 

She leaned her back against the bookcase 
in the study, and clung to a chair for further 
support, while Dr. Arnold explained the 
nature of the little mistake. 

Dr. Haywarth, of Welbeck Street, had been 
telegraphing and telephoning, and finally had 
sent a special messenger to convey the right 
paper and recall the wrong one. 

" Mrs. Ingram, do you understand ? Noth- 
ing whatever to do with your husband — that 
paper which alarmed you so. No, it was a 
rough jotting for his case-book — not your 
husband's case at all — quite another patient, 
someone he hk\d beeri seeing just before your 



j 40 


husband arrived* Havwarth is extremely 
sorry , but he inadvertently put this in with 
his letter to me, instead of the directions 
about your husband's diet. See now, this 
is the genuine article. ' Milk puddings ; 
moderate use of tobacco/ There, you are 
feeling better. Smell these salts. Now let 
me take you back to Ingram." 

But Ethel stopped the doctor outside the 
drawing-room door f 

"Dr. Arnold, don't come in now. 
Come and see him to-morrow. Do you 
mind ? I want to be alone with him." 

And so that day love was born again in 
Baveno. And the love will last, because 
another child is to be given to them. A little 
creature with tentacles like starfish, groping 
and clutching — such infinitely fragile hands, 
vet strong enough to bold this man and this 

,re ^/tt^'ffl i i*ftft* tt them p™* 

MRS. HAILI.N-. Kl- VM.*E I *S. 

The Sort of Man a W 




A Symposium of the Opinions of Lady Novelists. 
Illustrated by Alfred Leete, 

"TalL strong, and handsome, with intelligence beyond the average, yet with nothing 
alarming about him, good - humoured about trifles, jealous in matters of love— perhaps that 
is. after all the type women really like best. It is sheer nonsense to say that women 
enjoy being tyrannized over. No doubt there are some that would rather be bullied than 
ignored- But the hectoring man is, with few exceptions, secretly detested. In so far as one 
can generalize (always a dangerous thing to do), it may be said that women like best a 
kind, clever man, who can be always trusted, and occasionally (if necessary) deceived/' 

From " Tenterhooks," by ADA LEVERSOM 

HAT particular qualities in 
man make him appear attrac- 
tive to members of the oppo- 
site sex ? In one of her 
latest novels, " Tenterhooks/' 
the authoress ; Ada Lever son, 

describes above " the sort of man that she 

considers women like best/' 
Is Mrs* Lever son's opinion correct ? The 

question is one of such obvious interest to 

members of both sexes that we have collected 
the views of many other famous lady novelists 
on the query , u Is this the sort of man a 
woman really likes ? " 


How can one generalize ? Our dear friend 
Jane seems perfectly content with her John, 
yet we look at each other and sav ? pitvinglv, 

^ w u(!R«siffoKftHlB^ * imf " 



Chatune a son go{it f and the gout varies so 
tremendously — luckily, or we should all be 
pining for the same type of man, 

I agree with Mrs, Leverson that the hector- 
ing man is not a favourite, as a rule 3 though 
even this rule has exceptions. I agree that 
kindness is important. But naturally, speak- 
ing for myself, I find the " attentive " man 
most soothing ; neglect is the one unforgive- 
able sin. To my mind ? personal appearance 
is immaterial. Tall or short, dark or fair, 
handsome or ugly, what does it matter ? 
Surely one is attracted by personality, not 
white teeth or a fair moustache. 

And what does the *' man who can be 
always trusted " mean ? To me it sounds 
very dull. The most lovable dog I ever hud 
could never be trusted alone in the same 
room with chocolate idairs. 

I suppose nearly every woman admires 
strength; it 
seems to be part 
of one's idea of 
the male thing. 
Yet even here 
there are ex- 
ceptions. Who 
would not have 
loved Heine, for 
instance? As for 
a man I could 
M deceive/' if 
I loved him I 
should not want 
to deceive him, 
and if I could 
deceive him I 
should not love 

Well, being 
one of the vast 
crowd of 
women, here is 
the type I my- 
self like : Per- 
sonal appear- 
ance, unim- 
portant ; voice, 
very important; 
temper, hot, 
but not sulky ; 

attentive in small matters ; tactful ; reliable ; 
kind 5 good-natured ; " pally M ; strong ; 
affectionate ; intelligent — of course. And, oh ! 
above all — he must have a sense of humour. 

Hov^ could 
she kave 

On the whole Ada 


correctly represents " the sort of man women 
like best." Nevertheless, there are women 
to be found who prefer an ugly man with a 
soul to an Adonis without one; and, whilst 
all women detest a bully, there are many who 
secretly approve a master* 

Broadly speaking, it is safe to say that a 
woman prefers " the sort of man TS who most 
nearly accords with her individual ideal. To 
quote Hazlitt, she is most attracted by " an 
image familiar to the mind/ 1 And that the 
author of " Tenterhooks " has skilfully and 
correctly portrayed the Average Image in the 
mind of the Average Woman can scarcely be 


The sort of man women like best. I think, 
must be sufficiently good-looking to pass in a 
crowd, but the so-called handsome man I 

have no liking 
for at all. He 
must have kind 
eyes and a 
strong chin — 
nothing mean 
about his face, 
He must have 
the wisdom to 
children and be 
a true friend to 
dogs; dogs 
should come to 
him at once. 

Naturally, I 
should prefer 
him to be clever, 
and I should 
like him to be 
well -read* I 
should detest a 
jealous man, 
also a coward. 
He must be 
generous and 
1 a rge-mindedj 
and if he is a 
really strong 
man he would 
certainly be 
neither a bully 
nor a tyrant ; he would be too wise. I should 
ask no questions about his past, and I should 
trust him utterly with regard to the future. 

I agree entirely with Ada Leverson when 

ste LflWE^>wsiicite?.ff " enjoy l>ei 



tyrannized over/* and that " a hectoring man 
is, with few exceptions, secretly detested." 

Moreover, a bully is generally a weak man 
who blusters because he cannot impress him- 
self on his surroundings in any other way. 
Nine times out of ten the outwardly sub- 
missive wife of such a man has the stronger 
character of the two. In such cases he may 
pay the piper, but she calls the tune, and this 
generally by suggesting how much she would 
prefer some other tune to the one she intends 
should be played I 

" A kind, clever man, who can always be 
trusted," is indeed a gift of the gods, but I 
cannot agree with Mrs. Levers on that women , 
as a rule, like husbands " who can be de- 
ceived," If a husband or father is " kind 
and clever," there is no necessity and no 
temptation to deceive him. 

It is only the men who are hectoring 
bullies or stupid mules who are deceived by 
a sensible and truthful woman. 

The wife who knows how to 
be b on camamde, and who has 
chosen her husband for the same 
inestimable quality, can let these 
underground tactics alone and 
pre s erve her self-respect. All 
relations in life — a fortiori, those 
between husband and wife — 
require tact, but surely tact need 
never spell deceit ? 


It seems to me imposible for 
one woman to answer this inte- 
resting query , since each can only 
speak from her own feelings. 
Personally I think women 
do like to be tyrannized 
over, and that the one un- 
forgiveabie thing in women's TKc 
eyes is weakness of the invertebrate 
spirit* Physical weakness 
is to many unattractive. 
Neither do I think it fair 
to say women like a man 
they can deceive ; I would 
sooner put " despise," not 
11 like." The four most de- 
sirable qualities in a man would be, to my 
thinking, courage, intelligence, gaiety, and 
sympathy — and if you add sweetness and 
generosity you have perfection, 


To say that women like men who are u tall, 
strong, and handsome, with intelligence above 
the average," is to say that they have a 

healthy preference lot the best specimens of 
the race. 

It is true that they admire these things 
in a man, just as they naturally prefer a man 
who is " good-humoured about those most 
important things, trifles/' As to " being 
tyrannized over/' I think they imagine they 
like it before marriage, and discover they 
detest it after* 

Of course, it pleases them that a man should 
be "jealous." Not wishing to share their 
man with otheT women, they would not feel 
flattered at his readiness to share his woman 
with other men* 

If they want a man who can " occasionally 
(if necessary) be deceived," they will not have 
far to look. The man has yet to be born 
who cannot be deceived by any woman who 

But there is one quality for which most 
women would barter any or all of the above- 
named graces in man — the 
quality of understanding. 
Tenderness is sometimes mis- 
taken for it, but tenderness 
may exist without it. It 
is " understanding " which 
men and women have craved 
of each other since the time 
they were created, so dis- 
similar that the aspiration 
is impossible of fulfilment. 

Woman's fancy for the 
" masterful " man certainly 
died with the last century, 
though I am inclined to 
agree that they were always 
secretly detested. Now that 
we have learned to speak 
out, such men are openly 
flouted. There is a long step 
between him and the in- 
vertebrate specimen we none 
of us admire. 

Chivalry— the real chivalry 
of the strong towards the 
weak— is the quality which 
perhaps appeals as much as any, and always 
can be found in the kind, clever man described 
by Ada Leverson, that woman could always 
trust, but whom, I hope^ she would be 
ashamed to deceive, 


It is, indeed, as; Mrs. Leverson says, 
danger^\l^g|^]9M|^ a j^er more so 




than in the case of a woman, Women 
cannot generalize. They are swamped by 
personality and individuals. Were one lo 
ask a mature woman who had attained to a 
little philosophy — and no woman is mature 
or philosophic until she has been married a 
few years, or, perhaps, unmarried for a great 
many — to descr i be her 
ideal type of man, she 
would probably answer 
in Mrs, Le verso n's words: 
" He should have intelli- 
gence beyond the aver- 
age, yet with nothing 
alarming about him, be 
good - hum o u red about 
trifles, jealous in matters 
of love* A kind, clever 
man* who can be always 
trusted, and occasionally 
(if necessary) deceived, " 
But these words are the 
fruit of maturu judg- 
ment only — and cold 

Whether a man is tall, 
strong, and hands ome T 
or the reverse, matters 
very little. Women 
usually have a preference 
for men taller than them- 
selves, but a man's per- 
sonal appearance is a 
matter of small moment, 
unless he be absolutely 

What is of moment, 
however, to every woman 
is that her mate, when hit 
finds her, should bring 
romance with him. She 
will go through fire and water for romance, and 
it never dies, even in the driest and hardest 
and most prosaic of women. She wants served 
up to her daily her little dish of romance^ and 
the ingredients are of the simplest nature — a 
few words, a look, a kiss, a touch, a flower* 
It is a delicious dish, and no husband " with 
intelligence beyond the average 5> will forget 
it. Given this, he may be jealous in matters 
of love — very jealous. His wife will like it as 
long as he remains a lover. 

For a happy woman must have a lover; 
and that, to me, seems the crux of the matter. 


I do not think I have any definite opinion 
as to what sort of a man women like best. 
It always seems to me the sex is divided into 

V*L x!v.-17, 


two general types — the women who want to 
rule, and the women who want to be ruled. 
Each type naturally prefers a different sort 
of man. And while women keep the ideal 
of what they would prefer somewhere in their 
imagination, they succumb to the attrac- 
tions of the most incredible creatures. But 
this is a great truth, that 
you can judge of the 
woman individually by 
the sort of man she 
attracts. Or I should say, 
the sort of men she 
attracts, because they 
are generally of the same 
type. Like draws like. 

The type of man de- 
scribed by Ada Leverson 
may very possibly be the 
type preferred by the 
average woman ; but 
then the average woman 
has never been very ex- 
acting in her demands 
—perhaps owing to her 
melancholy preponder- 
ance in the marriage- 
market, which inclines 
her to take what she can 
get and be thankful for the 
moment. The cry of the 
time for divorce facilities 
would seem to prove that 
the thankfulness is not 
of a lasting nature. 

If husbands could be 
ordered like new hats, 
doubtless every girl 
would stipulate that hers 
should be ** tali, strong, and handsome." 
But when she really falls in love she sees the 
object of her infatuation as a perfect being, 
and would have nothing about him altered, 
even if he were small., fragile, and ugly ; and 
it is a matter of common experience that some 
of the most fascinating men have neither 
height 3 strength, nor beauty of a physical 
kind to recommend them. 

Only women who are weak-minded or 
lacking in self-respect permit themselves to 
be bullied, even as an alternative to being 
ignored. A man " jealous in matters of 
love " would be intolerable as a life-long 
companion ; and one who could be " occa- 
sionally (if necessary) deceived >J would not 
be worth Qtoigi^totiirifconsideration of an 
intell^fttEMH^SF MICHIGAN 




Ordered li 


and well, is hardly 
ever found in the 
u n i v ersally-admired 
person y male or female. 
This is because such 
a capacity absorbs the 
attention and interest, 
fixing it upon one 
object, and docs not 
leave its possessor free 
to charm anybody 
who comes along. 

If you thinly 
through history, of 
the names of men who 
have been very suc- 
cessful with women, 
and women who have 
been admired by 
many men, you will 
find them to have 
been, almost without 
exception, selfish 
and cold. 

The things— besides love — that really 
matter, and should have most weight in 
affecting matrimonial choice, are sympathy, 
community of interests, good temper., that 
saving sense of humour which oils the wheels 
of life, making them pass with ease oyer rough 
places, and, lastly, if one may dare to say so, 
goodness and strength of character. 


Women differ in their tastes as 
widely as men. One woman likes one 
kind of man, and another woman 
another kind. 

One knows, however, that there is 
a certain kind of man to whom many 
women are drawn — one hardly sees 
why — and a certain kind of woman 
who has a charm for men, the cause 
of which is a mystery to her own sex. 
I believe the fascinating quality to 
be exactly the same in both sexes. 
It consists In a certain cold-hearted- 
ness^ a capacity for remaining quite 
detached from any leeling you have 
succeeded in arousing. The man who 
would succeed with many women 
must have the air of saying, " I can 
do perfectly well, not without women, 
but without you individually/' 

The capacity to love, unselfishly 

"RITA" (MRS, D. 


In my opinion the 
sort of man women like best is a man with an 
object in life — strong, firm, and self-reliant. 
With just enough tenderness to love a woman 
for her own sake, with powers of sympathy and 
forbearance, and, above all, a good temper. 

I must confess at once that I have no fault 



to find with Mrs. Ada Leverson's description 
of " the sort of man women like best," The 
only trouble is that he is scarce. I agree with 
her that j though women like strength } they 
do not like domestic tyrants. 

As for the use of the word " deceive,'* it 
may mean anything, ugly or otherwise. 
Occasionally a woman has to tidy a man's 
room when his back is turned, 


I think that we women like best, as a rule, 
the kind of man that we begin by thinking 
we should like least. One's ideal — all girls 
have him ! — the tall, strong, silent, yet 
passionately adoring, soldierly person who 
invariably does the brave and perfect deeds 
without even stopping to think, would be 
so extremely tiresome to live with and live 
up to, that one gener- 
ally lt sheds" him out 
of one's secret heart 
when the real., imper- 
fect , delight fulj impos- 
sible * to - describe - or- 
understand man 
comes into one's life* 

Yes, the great thing 
is, impossible to under 
stand, because 
one can never 
come to the end 
or tire. He's always 
new and interesting. 
But then, really, all 
men are impossible 
for women to under- 
stand. If we think 
we can, we are mis- 
taken, and it would 
make for happiness, 
I'm sure, if we realized 
that there were always 
depths and heights 
which we could never 
quite know. 


under- / \ Y\ 

of him, r^yj? 

He is 


Strong ? Yes 3 women adore strength, 
masculinity if you will , but the average woman 
doesn't care very much about looks, for the 
plainest, even the ugliest men are generally 
welMiked by womankind* The really hand- 
some man is often a mere rag-bag of vanity, 
and women hate and secretly despise a man 
who is vain of his appearance. 

Jealous in matters of love ? Yes, and I 
believe in her secret heart woman likes to 
he tyrannized over, though never, even to 
herself s will she acknowledge this. If she is 
in love with him there is more of the Cave 
Woman in her than she imagines, but there 
is, too, much of the mother, and no matter 
how much she may look up to him, no matter 
how she may revel in his strength of arm and 
fine physique, there will he moments when 

she will realize he is 
only a grown-up boy 
after all. That is 
when she must de- 
ceive him, for he 
must never know that 
she has found this 
out. In my opinion, 
the man a woman 
likes best is cleverer 
than she, but doesn't 
know it, though she 
does ; the masculine 
man who adores her 
f or_ her feminine 
charm, but who, in 
spite of her femininity, 
treats her as a com- 
rade, a chum. 

Vdun o( HlS 


G °°S' # UNIVI 


I quite agree with 

Mrs. Le% T erson's ideas 

as to the sort of man 

women like best, ex- 

^Spting with regard to 

UNIVERSITY OF MIHtifiAlj I don't think 

i 5 6 


women are especially at- 
tracted by a handsome face, 
though I am sure they like 
size and strength. Also I 
doubt whether they admire 
actual cleverness as much 
as sound common sense — a 
characteristic which very 
clever people often con- 
spicuously lack. 


In my opinion the sort 
of man described in the 
extract from ' £ Tenter- 
hooks/' by Ada Leverson, 
is not the sort of man 
women really like best. 

His height and beauty would surely have 
very little to do with the affection that a 
woman worth the name would bestow upon 
him. As a friend, women like a man to be 
amusing, good - tempered, 
not too clever, and a man 
who possesses the art of 
making a woman feel that 
she is the most charming 
and the prettiest, and cer- 
t a inly the best-dressed, 
woman of his acquaintance. 
She will be quite content, 
for she will not remember — 
or believe — that he will 
make every woman think 
the same. 

But as lover or husband, 
women like the man who 
is, no matter what * his 
appearance, kind, tender, 
considerate— a man who is 
gentle to and fond of little 
children and dumb 

The man a woman likes, 
or loves j she must surely he 
able to trust completely, 
and the man whom she can 
deceive she will certainly 
despite in her heart of hearts, 

TTw best 
woman o{ 



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Original from 



Abou jt ./, 

J»y f.G.Wodebouse* 

Illustrated ty Charles Crombie. 

GIRL stood on the shingle 
that fringes Melbourne Bay, 
gazing at the red roofs of the 
little village across the water* 
She was a pretty girl, small 
and trim. Just now some 
secret sorrow seemed to be 
troubling her, for on her forehead were 
wrinkles and in her eyes a look of wistfuiness. 
She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks 
of one who is thinking of her sailor lover. 

But she was not. She had no sailor lover, 
What she was thinking of was that at about 
this time they would be lighting up the 
shop-windows in London , and that of all the 
deadly, depressing spots she had ever visited 
this village of Mill bourne was the deadliest, 
The evening shadows deepened. The in- 
coming tide glistened oilily as it rolled over 
the mud flats. She rose and shivered, 

" Goo ! What a hole ! " she said, eyeing 
the unconscious village morosely, " What a 
hole ! " 

This was Sally Preston's first evening in 
Millbourne, She had arrived by the after- 
noon train from London — not of her own free 
will. Left to herself, she would not have 
come within sixty miles of the place. London 
supplied all that she demanded from life. 
She had been born in London ; she had lived 
there ever since — she hoped to die there. 
She liked fogSj motor-buses, noise, policemen, 

paper-hoys, shops, taxi-cabs, artificial light, 
stone pavements, houses in long, grey rows, 
mud, banana-skins, and moving-picture exhi- 
bitions. Especially moving-picture exhibi- 
tions. It was, indeed, her taste for these 
that had caused her banishment to Mill bourne* 

The great public is not yet unanimous on 
the subject of moving-picture exhibitions. 
Sally, as I have said, approved of them. 
Her father, on the other hand, did not. An 
austere ex-butler, who let lodgings in Ebury 
Street and preached on Sundays in Hyde 
Park, he looked askance at the l( mo vies. " It 
was his boast that he had never been inside 
a theatre in his life, and he classed cinema 
palaces with theatres as wiles of the deviL 
Sally, suddenly unmasked as an habitual 
frequenter of these abandoned places, sprang 
with one bound into prominence as the 
Bad Girl of the Family, Instant removal 
from the ran|fe of temptation being the only 
possible plan, it seemed to Mr, Preston that a 
trip to the country was indicated. 

He selected Mi 11 bourne because he had been 
butler at the Hall there , and because his 
sister Jane, who had been a parlour-maid at 
the Rectory, was now married and living in 

chosen a more 




promising reformatory for Sally. Here, if 
anywhere, might she forget the heady joys 
of the cinema. Tucked away in the corner of 
its little bay, which an accommodating island 
converts into a still lagoon, Millbourne lies 
dozing. In all sleepy Hampshire there is no 
sleepier spot. It is a place of calm-eyed 
men and drowsy dogs. Things crumble away 
and are not replaced. Tradesmen book 
orders, and then lose interest and forget to 
deliver the goods. Only centenarians die, 
and nobody worries about anything — or did 
not until Sally came and gave them something 
to worry about. 

Next-door to Sally's Aunt Jane, in a cosy 
little cottage with a wonderful little garden, 
lived Thomas Kitchener, a large, grave, self- 
sufficing young man, who, by sheer applica- 
tion to work, had become already, though 
only twenty-five, second gardener at the Hall. 
Gardening absorbed him. When he was not 
working at the Hall he was working at home. 
On the morning following Sally's arrival, it 
being a Thursday and his day off, he was 
crouching in a constrained attitude in his 
garden, every fibre of his being concentrated 
on the interment of a plump young bulb. 
Consequently, when a chunk of mud came 
sailing over the fence, he did not notice it. 

A second, however, compelled attention by 
bursting like a shell on the back of his neck. 
He looked up, startled. Nobody was in sight. 
He was puzzled. It could hardly be raining 
mud. Yet the alternative theory, that 
someone in the next garden was throwing it, 
was hardly less bizarre. The nature of his 
friendship with Sally's Aunt Jane and old 
Mr. Williams, her husband, was comfortable 
rather than rollicking. It was inconceivable 
that they should be flinging clods at 

As he stood wondering whether he should 
go to the fence and look over, or simply accept 
the phenomenon as one of those things which 
no fellow can understand, there popped up 
before him the head and shoulders of a girl. 
Poised in her right hand was a third clod, 
which, seeing that there was now no need for 
its services, she allowed to fall to the ground. 

" Halloa ! " she said. " Good morning." 

She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Tom 
was by way of being the strong, silent man 
with a career to think of and no time for 
bothering about girls, but he saw that. There 
was, moreover, a certain alertness in her 
expression rarely found in the feminine 
population of Millbourne, who were apt to 
be slightly bovine. 

" What do you think you're messing about 
at ? " she said, affably. 

Tom was a slow-minded young man, who 
liked to have his thoughts well under control 
before he spoke. He was not one of your gay 
rattlers. Besides, there was something about 
this girl which confused him to an extra- 
ordinary extent. He was conscious of new 
and strange emotions. He stood staring 

" What's your name, anyway ? " 

He could answer that. He did so. 

" Oh! Mine's Sally Preston. Mrs. Wil- 
liams is my aunt. I've come from London." 

Tom had no remarks to make about London. 

" Have you lived here all your life ? " 

" Yes," said Tom. 

" My goodness ! Don't you ever feel fed 
up ? Don't you want a change ? " 

Tom considered the point. 

" No," he said. 

" Well, / do. I want one now." 

" It's a nice place," hazarded Tom. 

" It's nothing of the sort. It's the beast- 
liest hole in existence. It's absolutely chronic. 
Perhaps you wonder why I'm here. Don't 
think I wanted to come here. Not me ! I 
was sent. It was like this." She gave him 
a rapid summary of her troubles. " There ! 
Don't you call it a bit thick ? " she concluded. 

Tom considered this point, too. 

" You must make the best of it," he said, 
at length. 

" I won't ! I'll make father take me back." 

Tom considered this point also. Rarely, if 
ever, had he been given so many things to 
think about in one morning. 

" How ? " he inquired, at length. 

" I don't know. I'll find some way. You 
see if I don't. I'll get away from here jolly 
quick, I give you my word." 

Tom bent low over a rose-bush. His face 
was hidden, but the brown of his neck seemed 
to take on a richer hue, and his ears were 
undeniably crimson. His feet moved restlessly, 
and from his unseen mouth there proceeded 
the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. 
Merely considered as a speech, it was, perhaps, 
nothing wonderful ; but from Tom it was a 
miracle of chivalry and polish. 

What he said was : " I hope not." 

And instinct telling him that he had made 
his supreme effort, and that anything further 
must be bathos, he turned abruptly and 
stalked into his cottage, where he drank tea 
and ate bacon and thought chaotic thoughts. 
And when his appetite declined to carry him 
more than half-way chrough the third rasher, 
he understood. He was :tn lave. 



These strong, silent men who mean to be 
head-gardeners before they are thirty, and 
eliminate woman from their lives as a dan- 
gerous obstacle to the successful career, pay 
a heavy penalty when they do fall in love. 
The average irresponsible young man who 
has hung about North Street on Saturday 
nights, walked through the meadows and 
round by the mill and back home past the 
creek on Sunday afternoons, taken his seat 
in the brake for the annual outing, shuffled 
his way through the polka at the tradesmen's 
ball, and generally seized all legitimate 
opportunities for sporting with Amaryllis in 
the shade, has a hundred advantages which 
your successful career er lacks. There was 
hardly a moment during the days which 
followed when Tom did not regret his neglected 

For he was not Sally's only victim in Mill- 
bourne. That was the trouble. Her beauty 
was not of that elusive type which steals 
imperceptibly into the vision of the rare 
connoisseur. It was sudden and compelling. 
It hit you. Bright brown eyes beneath a 
mass of fair hair, a determined little chin, a 
slim figure — these are disturbing things ; and 
the youths of peaceful Millbourne sat up and 

! took notice as one youth. Throw your mind 
back to the last musical comedy you saw. 
Recall the leading lady's song with chorus of 
young men, all proffering devotion simul- 
taneously in a neat row ? Well, that was 
how the lads of the village comported them- 
selves towards Sally. 

Mr. and Mrs. Williams, till then a highly- 
esteemed but little-frequented couple, were 
astonished at the sudden influx of visitors. 
The cottage became practically a salon. 
There was not an evening when the little 
sitting-room looking out on the garden was 
not packed. It is true that the conversation 
lacked some of the sparkle generally found in 
the better class of salon. To be absolutely 
accurate, there was hardly any conversation. 
The youths of Millbourne were sturdy and 
honest. They were the backbone of England. 
England, in her hour of need, could have 
called upon them with the comfortable cer- 

. tainty that, unless they happened to be other- 
wise engaged, they would leap to her aid. 

But they did not shine at small-talk. 
Conversationally they were a spent force 
after they had asked Mr. Williams how his 
rheumatism was. Thereafter they contented 
themselves with sitting massively about in 
corners, glowering at each other. Still, it was 
all very jolly and sociable, and helped to pass 
the long evenings. And, as Mrs, Williams 

pointed out, in reply to some rather strong 
remarks from Mr. Williams on the subject of 
packs of young fools who made it impossible 
for a man to get a quiet smoke in his own 
home, it kept them out of the public-houses. 

Tom Kitchener, meanwhile, observed the 
invasion with growing dismay. Shyness 
barred him from the evening gatherings, and 
what was going on in that house, with young 
bloods like Ted Pringlc, Albert Parsons, 
Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom (to name 
four of the most assiduous) exercising their 
fascinations at close range, he did not like to 
think. Again and again he strove to brace 
himself up to join the feasts of reason and flows 
of soul which he knew were taking place 
nightly around the object of his devotions, 
but every time he failed. Habit is a terrible 
thing; it shackles the strongest, and Tom 
had fallen into the habit of inquiring after 
Mr. Williams's rheumatism over the garden 
fence first thing in the morning. 

It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but 
it annihilated the only excuse he could think 
of for looking in at night. He could not help 
himself. It was like some frightful scourge — 
the morphine habit; or something of that 
sort. Every morning he swore to himself that 
nothing should induce him to mention the 
subject of rheumatism, but no sooner had 
the stricken old gentleman's head appeared 
above the fence than out it came. 

" Morning, Mr. Williams." 

" Morning, Tom." 

Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling 
with himself ; then : — 

" How's the rheumatism, Mr. Williams ? " 

" Better, thank'ee, Tom." 

And there he was, with his guns spiked. 

However, he did not give up. He brought 
to his wooing the same determination which 
had made him second gardener at the Hall at 
twenty-five. He was a novice at the game, 
but instinct told him that a good line of action 
was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had 
to shower was vegetables, and he showered 
them in a way that would have caused the 
goddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden 
became a perfect crater, erupting vegetables. 
Why vegetables ? I think I hear some heckler 
cry. Why not flowers — fresh, fair, fragrant 
flowers ? You can do a lot with flowers. 
Girls love them. There is poetry in them. 
And, what is more, there is a recognized 
language of flowers. Shoot in a rose, or a 
calceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or 
something, I gather, and you have made a 
formal proposal of marriage without any of 
the trouble of rehearsing a long speech and 



practising appropriate gestures in front of 
your bedroom looking-glass. Why, then, 
did not Thomas Kitchener give Sally Preston 
flowers ? Well, you see, unfortunately it was 
now kite autumn, and there were no flowers. 
Nature had temporarily exhausted her floral 
blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes 
and artichokes and things. Love is like that. 
It invariably comes just at the wrong time, 
A few months before there had been enough 
roses in Tom Kitchener's garden to win the 
hearts of a dozen girls. Now there were only 
vegetables. Twas ever thus. 
It was not to be expected that a devotion 

me. All these p'taties, and what not. / 
seen your game fast enough. Just you 
drop it, young Tom." 

" Why ? w muttered Tom, rebelliously. A 
sudden distaste for old Mr. Williams blazed 
within him. 

" Why ? 'Cos you'll only burn your 
fingers if you don't, that's why* I been 
watching this young gal of Jane's, and 1 
seen what sort of a young gal she be* She's 
a flipperty piece, that's what she be. You 
marry that young gal, Tom, and you'll 
never have no more quiet and happiness. 
She'd just take and turn the place upsy-down 

4i ■ you're making up to that 




so practically displayed should escape com- 
ment. This was supplied by that shrewd 
observer , old Mr. Williams. He spoke 
seriously to Tom across the fence on the 
subject of his passion. 

" Young Tom," he said, u drop it," 
Tom muttered unintelligibly. Mr. Williams 
adjusted the top-hat without which he never 
stirred abroad, even into his garden* He 
blinked benevolently at Tom. 

il You're making up to that young gal of 
Jane's/ 1 he proceeded* " You can't deceive 

on you. The man as marries that young 
gal has got to be master in his own home. 
He T s got to show her what's what. Now, 
you ain't got the devil in you to do that, 
Tom. You're what I might call a sort of a 
sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. I like to 
see a young man steady and quiet^ same as 
what you be. So that's how it is, you see. 
Just you drop this foolishness^ young Tom, 
and leave that young gal be, else you'll burn 
your fingers, same as what I say." 

Aodj giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, the old 
gentleman ambled indoors, satisfied that he 
had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant and 
tactful mariner.. 

It is tow^iQfpBBMnthat this interview 
stunilMWfiRfelTSlWjS iWtCildHJAlOtherwise, one 



cannot explain why he should not have been 
just as reticent on the subject nearest his 
heart when bestowing on Sally the twenty- 
seventh cabbage as he had been when 
administering the hundred and sixtieth 
potato. At any rate, the fact remains that, 
as that fateful vegetable changed hands across 
the fence, something resembling a proposal 
of marriage did actually proceed from him. 
As a sustained piece of emotional prose it 
fell short of the highest standard. Most of 
it was lost at the back of his throat, and 
what did emerge was mainly inaudible. 
However, as she distinctly caught the word 
" love " twice, and as Tom was shuffling his 
feet and streaming with perspiration, and 
looking everywhere at once except at her, 
Sally grasped the situation. Whereupon, 
without any visible emotion, she accepted 

Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. 
He could not believe his luck. It is singular 
how diffident a normally self-confident man 
can become, once he is in love. When 
Colonel Milvery, of the Hall, had informed 
him of his promotion to the post of second 
gardener, Tom had demanded no encore. He 
knew his worth. He was perfectly aware 
that he was a good gardener, and official 
recognition of the fact left him gratified, 
but unperturbed. But this affair of Sally 
was quite another matter. It had revolu- 
tionized his standards of value — forced him 
to consider himself as a man, entirely apart 
from his skill as a gardener. And until this 
moment he had had grave doubt as to 
whether, apart from his skill as a gardener, 
he amounted to much. 

He was overwhelmed. He kissed Sally 
across the fence humbly. Sally, for her part, 
seemed very unconcerned about it all. A 
more critical man than Thomas Kitchener 
might have said that, to all appearances, the 
thing rather bored Sally. 

" Don't tell anybody just yet," she 

Tom would have given much to be allowed 
to announce his triumph defiantly to old Mr. 
Williams, to say nothing of making a con- 
siderable noise about it in the village ; but 
her wish was law, and he reluctantly agreed. 

There are moments in a man's life when, 
however enthusiastic a gardener he may be, 
his soul soars above vegetables. Tom's shot 
with a jerk into the animal kingdom. The 
first present he gave Sally in his capacity of 
fianci was a dog. 

It was a half-grown puppy with long legs 

VoL xlr # — 18. 

and a long tail, belonging to no one species, 
but generously distributing itself among 
about six. Sally loved it, and took it with 
her wherever she went. And on one of these 
rambles down swooped Constable Cobb, the 
village policeman, pointing out that, con- 
trary to regulations, the puppy had no collar. 

It is possible that a judicious meekness on 
Sally's part might have averted disaster. Mr* 
Cobb was human, and Sally was looking par- 
ticularly attractive that morning. Meekness, 
however, did not come easily to Sally. In a 
speech which began as argument and ended 
(Mr. Cobb proving stolid and unyielding) as 
pure cheek, she utterly routed the constable. 
But her victory was only a moral one, for as 
she turned to go Mr. Cobb, dull red and puffing 
slightly, was already entering particulars of 
the affair in his note-book, and Sally knew 
that the last word was with him. 

On her way back she met Tom Kitchener. 
He was looking very tough and strong, and 
at the sight of him a half-formed idea, which 
she had regretfully dismissed as impracticable, 
of assaulting Constable Cobb, returned to her 
in an amended form. Tom did not know it, 
but the reason why she smiled so radiantly 
upon him at that moment was that she had 
just elected him to the post of hired assassin* 
While she did not want Constable Cobb 
actually assassinated, she earnestly desired 
him to have his helmet smashed down over 
his eyes ; and it seemed to her that Tom was 
the man to do it. 

She poured out her grievance to him and 
suggested her scheme. She even elaborated it. 

" Why shouldn't you wait for him one 
night and throw him into the creek ? It 
isn't deep, and it's jolly muddy." 

" Urn ! " said Tom, doubtfully. 

" It would just teach him," she pointed 

But the prospect of undertaking the higher 
education of the police did not seem to appeal 
to Tom. In his heart he rather sympathized 
with Constable Cobb. He saw the police- 
man's point of view. It is all very well to 
talk, but when you are stationed in a sleepy 
village where no one ever murders, or robs, 
or commits arson, or even gets drunk and 
disorderly in the street, a puppy without a 
collar is simply a godsend. A man must 
look out for himself. 

He tried to make this side of the question 
clear to Sally, but failed signally. She took 
a deplorable view of his attitude. 

" I might have known you'd have been 
afraid," she raid, with a contemptuous jerk 
of her chin* " Good morning:," 

1 62 


Tom flushed. He knew he had never been 
afraid of anything in his life, except her ; 
but nevertheless the accusation stung. And 
as he was still afraid of her he stammered as 
he began to deny the charge. 

" Oh, leave off ! " said Sally, irritably . 
" Suck a lozenge." 

" I'm not afraid/' said Tom, condensing 
his remarks to their minimum as his only 
chance of being intelligible. 

" You are." 

" I'm not. It's just that I " 

A nasty gleam came into Sally's eyes. Her 
manner was haughty. 

" It doesn't matter." She paused. " I've 
no doubt Ted Pringle will do what I want." 

For all her contempt, she could not keep 
a touch of uneasiness from her eyes as she 
prepared to make her next remark. There 
was a look about Tom's set jaw which made 
her hesitate. But her temper had run away 
with her, and she went on. 

" I am sure he will," she said. " When we 
became engaged he said that he would do 
anything for me." 

There are some speeches that are such 
conversational knock-out blows that one can 
hardly believe that life will ever pick itself 
up and go on again after them. Yet it does. 
The dramatist brings down the curtain on 
such speeches. The novelist blocks his reader's 
path with a zareba of stars. But in life 
there are no curtains, no stars, nothing final 
and definite — only ragged pauses and dis- 
comfort. There was such a pause now. 

" What do you mean ? " said Tom, at last. 
" You promised to marry me." 

" I know I did — and I promised to marry 
Ted Pringle!" 

That touch of panic which she could not 
wholly repress, the panic that comes to every- 
one when a situation has run away with them 
like a strange, unmanageable machine, infused 
a shade too much of the defiant into Sally's 
manner. She had wished to be cool, even 
casual, but she was beginning to be afraid. 
Why, she could not have said. Certainly 
she did not anticipate violence on Tom's part. 
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was just 
because he was so quiet that she was afraid. 
She had always looked on him contemp- 
tuously as an amiable, transparent lout, and 
now he was puzzling her. She got an impres- 
sion of something formidable behind his 
stolidity, something that made her feel mean 
and insignificant. 

She fought against the feeling, but it gripped 
her ; and, in spite of herself, she found 
her voice growing shrill and out of control. 

" I promised to marry Ted Pringle, and I 
promised to marry Joe Blossom, and I pro- 
mised to marry Albert Parsons. And I 
was going to promise to marry Arthur Brown 
and anybody else who asked me. So now 
you know ! I told you I'd make father take 
me back to London. Well, when he hears 
that I've promised to marry four different 
men, I bet heil have me home by the first 

She stopped. She had more to say, but 
she could not say it. She stood looking at 
him. And he looked at her. His face was 
grey and his mouth oddly twisted. Silence 
seemed to fall on the whole universe. 

Sally was really afraid now, and she knew 
it. She was feeling very smaH and defenceless 
in an extremely alarming world. She could 
not have said what it was that had happened 
to her. She only knew that life had become 
of a sudden very vivid, and that her ideas as 
to what was amusing had undergone a striking 
change. A man's development is a slow and 
steady process of the years — a woman's a 
thing of an instant. In the silence which 
followed her words Sally had grown up. 

Tom broke the silence. 

" Is that true ? " he said. 

His voice made her start. He had spoken 
quietly, but there was a new note in it, 
strange to her. Just as she could not have 
said what it was that had happened to her, 
so now she could not have said what had 
happened to Tom. He, too, had changed, but 
how she did not know. Yet the explanation 
was simple. He also had, in a sense, grown 
up. He was no longer afraid of her. 

He stood thinking. Hours seemed to pass. 

" Come along ! " he said, at last, and he 
began to move off down the road. 

Sally followed. The possibility of refusing 
did not enter her mind. 

" Where are you going ? " she asked. It 
was unbearable, this silence. 

He did not answer. 

In this fashion, he leading, she following, 
they went down the road into a lane, and 
through a gate into a field. They passed 
into a second field, and as they did so Sally's 
heart gave a leap. Ted Pringle was there. 

Ted Pringle was a big young man, bigger 
even than Tom Kitchener, and, like Tom, he 
was of silent habit. He eyed the little pro- 
cession inquiringly, but spoke no word. 
There was a pause. 

" Ted," said Tom, " there's been a mistake." 

He stepped quickly to Sally's side, and the 
next moment he had swung her off her feet 

* ndk WfeltY OF MICHIGAN 



To the type of mind that Melbourne breeds 
actions speak louder than words, and Ted 
Fringlc, who had gaped , gaped no more. He 
sprang forward, and Tom, pushing Sally 
aside, turned to meet him, 

I cannot help feeling a little sorry for Ted 
Pringle. In the light of what happened, I 
could wish that it were possible to portray him 
as a hulking brute of evil appearance and 
worse morals — the sort of person concerning 
whom one could reflect comfortably that he 




briefly, what occurred was that Tom, bringing 
t? the fray a pent-up fury which his adversary 
had had no time to generate, fought Ted to a 
complete standstill in the space of two 
minutes and a half. 

Sally had watched the proceed ings^ sick 
and horrified. She had never seen men fight 
before, and the terror of it overwhelmed her. 
Her vanity received no pleasant stimulation 
from the thought that it was for her sake 
that this storm had been let loose. For the 
moment her vanity was dead, stunned by 


deserved all he got, I should like to make 
him an unsympathetic character, over whose 
downfall the reader would gloat. But honesty 
compels me to own that Ted was a thoroughly 
decent young man in every way* He was a 
good citizen, a dutiful son, and would certainly 
have made an excellent husband. Further- 
more, in the dispute on hand he had right on 
his side fully as much as Tom, The whole 
affair was one of those elemental clashings of 
man and man where the historian cannot 
sympathize with cither side at the expense 
of the other 5 but must confine himself to a 
mere statement of what occurred. And, 

collision with the realities, She found herself 
watching in a dream. She saw Ted fall, rise, 
fall again, and lie where he had fallen ; and 
then she was aware that Tom was speaking. 

" Come along ! " 

She hung back. Ted was lying very still. 
Gruesome ideas presented themselves. She 
had just accepted them as truth when Ted 
wriggled. He wriggled again, Then he sat 
up suddenly, looked at her with unseeing 
eyes, and said something in a thick voice. 
She gave a little sob of relief, It was ghastly, 
but not so ghastly ut, what she had been 




Somebody touched her arm. Tom was by 
her side, grim and formidable. He w?s 
wiping blood from his face. 

" Come along ! " 

She followed him without a word. And 
presently, behold, in another field, whistling 
meditatively and regardless of impending ill, 
Albert Parsons. 

In everything that he did Tom was a man 
of method. He did not depart from his 
chosen formula. 

" Albert," he said, " there's been a mistake." 

And Albert gaped, as Ted had gaped. 

Tom kissed Sally with the gravity of one 
performing a ritual. 

The uglinesses of life, as we grow accustomed 
to them, lose their power to shock, and there 
is no doubt that Sally looked with a different 
eye upon this second struggle. She was con- 
scious of a thrill of excitement, very different 
from the shrinking horror which had seized her 
before. Her stunned vanity began to tingle 
into life again. The fight was raging furiously 
over the trampled turf, and quite suddenly, as 
she watched, she was aware that her heart 
was with Tom. 

It was no longer two strange brutes fighting 
in a field. It was her man battling for her 

She desired overwhelmingly that he should 
win, that he should not be hurt, that he 
should sweep triumphantly over Albert 
Parsons as he had swept over Ted Pringle. 

Unfortunately, it was evident, even to her, 
that he was being hurt, and that he was very 
far from sweeping triumphantly over Albert 
Parsons. He had not allowed himself time 
to recover from his first battle, and his blows 
were slow and weary. Albert, moreover, was 
made of sterner stuff than Ted. Though now 
a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a 
time in his hot youth when, travelling with a 
circus, he had fought, week in, week out, 
relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. 
He knew their methods — their headlong 
rushes, their swinging blows. They were the 
merest commonplaces of life to him. He 
slipped Tom, he side-stepped Tom, he jabbed 
Tom ; he did everything to Tom that a 
trained boxer can do to a reckless novice, 
except knock the fight out of hiri, until 
presently, through the sheer labour of hitting, 
he, too, grew weary. 

Now, in the days when Albert Parsons had 
fought whole families of Toms in an evening, 
he had fought in rounds, with the boss holding 
the watch, and half-minute rests, and water 
to refresh him, and all orderly and proper. 
To-day there were no rounds, no rests, no 

water, and the peaceful tending of cows had 
caused flesh to grow where there had been 
only muscle. Tom's headlong rushes became 
less easy to side-step, his swinging blows more 
swift than the scientific counter that shot 
out to check them. As he tired Tom seemed 
to regain strength. The tide of the battle 
began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw 
him off. He feinted, and while he was feinting 
Tom was on him. It was the climax of the 
battle — the last rally. Down went Albert, 
and stayed down. Physically, he was not 
finished ; but in his mind a question had 
framed itself — the question, " Was it worth 
it ? " — and he was answering, " No." There 
were other girls in the world. No girl was 
worth all this trouble. 

He did not rise. 

" Come along ! " said Tom. 

He spoke thickly. His breath was coming 
in gasps. He was a terrible spectacle, but 
Sally was past the weaker emotions. She 
was back in the Stone Age, and her only 
feeling was one of passionate pride. She 
tried to speak. She struggled to put all she 
felt into words, but something kept her dumb, 
and she followed him in silence. 

In the lane outside his cottage, down by 
the creek, Joe Blossom was clipping a 
hedge. The sound of footsteps made him 

He did not recognize Tom till he spoke. 

" Joe, there's been a mistake," said Tom. 

" Been a gunpowder explosion, more like," 
said Joe, a simple, practical man. " What 
you been doin' to your face ? " 

" She's going to marry me, Joe." 

Joe eyed Sally inquiringly. 

" Eh ? You promised to marry me" 

" She promised to marry all of us. You, 
me, Ted Pringle, and Albert Parsons." 

" Promised — to — marry — all — of — us ! " 

" That's where the mistake was. She's 
only going to marry me. I — I've arranged 
it with Ted and Albert, and now I've come 
to explain to you, Joe." 

" You promised to marry ! " 

The colossal nature of Sally's deceit was 
plainly troubling Joe Blossom. He expelled 
his breath in a long note of amazement. Then 
he summed up. 

" Why, you're nothing more nor less than a 
Joshua ! " 

The years that had passed since Joe had 
attended the village Sunday-school had 
weakened his once easy familiarity with the 
characters of the Old Testament. It is 
possible that hi had somebody else in his 




Tom stuck doggedly to his point. 

4( You can't marry her, Joe." 

Joe Blossom raised his shears and clipped 
a protruding branch. The point under dis- 
cussion seemed to have ceased to interest hirm 

"Who wants to?" he said. "Good 
riddance ! " 

They went down the lane. Silence still 
brooded over them. The words she wanted 
continued to evade her. 

If this story proves anything (beyond the 
advantage of being in good training when you 
fight), it proves that you cannot get away from 
the moving pictures even in a place like 
Melbourne ; for as Sally sat there, nursing 
Tom, it suddenly struck her that this was 
the very situation with which that " Romance 
of the Middle Ages " film ended. You 
know the one I mean. Sir Percivale Ye 
Something (which has slipped my memory 

¥T5 TO?' HF. SAID, 

They came to a grassy bank. Torn sat 
down* He was feeling unutterably tired. 

" Tom ! J> 

He looked up. His mind was working 

" You're going to marry me,'* he muttered. 

She sat down beside him. 

" I know/' she said, " Tom, dear, lay your 
head on my lap and go to sleep," 

for the moment) goes out after the 
Holy Grail ; meets damsel in distress ; 
overcomes her persecutors ; rescues her ; 
gets wounded; and h nursed back to life 
in her arms. Sally had seen it a dozen 
times. And every time she had reflected 
sadly that the days of romance are dead, 
and that that sort of thing can't happen 

by Google 

Original from 

My Reminiscences. 


Illustrated hy H. M. Brock, Ri 

BOUT ten 
years ago 
I published 
a book of 
very an- 
grily received by 
critics and very 
coldly by the 
public, which 
comprised nearly 
all that I cared to 
say concerning 
myself from my 
cradle up to about 
the time when I 
left England for 
France. As I 
cannot advan- 
tageously repeat 
myself, it follows 
that now I must 

begin at the point where the book left off 
— namely, my rebirth (for the phenomenon 
amounted to a rebirth) in Paris. By the way, 
there were perhaps two good reasons for the 
failure of the book. In the first place, it 
contained, so far as I remember, not a 
single word about men of genius, celebrities, 
notorieties, criminals, or sportsmen. In the 
second pi ace , its frankness about its author 
was disconcerting, and even annoying, to 
many people. I fear that these two charac- 
teristics will always attach to whatever 
reminiscences I may write, I insist on living 
a quiet life, and hence, in the matter of 
gossip, I could not compete with the great 
mongers of the market ; nor should I ever 
care to relate the doings and sayings and 
peculiarities of my friends and acquaintances, 
As for candour, I believe in it. And I wish 
there was more of it in England, 

When one looks hack one sees that certain 
threads run through one's lite, making a sort 
of pattern in it. These threads and the 

nature of the pattern are not perceived until 
long after the actual events constituting 
them. I now see that there has been a 
French thread through my life. Of its 
origin I can form no idea, for neither my 
forbears nor the friends of my youth dis- 
played the slightest interest in France or 
the French. Vet when I was eighteen or 
nineteen, and a clerk in my father's law 
office in the Five Towns, I used to spend my 
money on French novels— in English trans- 

I was obliged to be content with English 
translations, because I could not read French 
without a dictionary, a book of idioms, and 
intense weariness. I had been studying 
French almost daily for nine years, I had 
passed the London Matriculation in French— 
and let me say that the London Matriculation 
French paper is, or was, among the silliest and 
most futile absurdities that the perverse, 

Copyright, 1513, by Arnold Bennett. 

unimaginative, craftiness, of the pedagogic 
mind (ifeltV" Efii>Jirttfetfv l^ltC ^1^^^ an immense 



amount of French grammar. And all my 
labour was, in practice, utterly useless. In 
such wise are living languages taught on this 

Nevertheless, I deeply enjoyed these secret 
contacts with French thought and manners, 
as revealed in French novels. The risks I 
had to run in order to procure them were 
terrific. Talk about leading a double life 
under the parental roof I I had no need to 
inquire whether modern French novels would 
be permitted at home. I very well knew that 
they would not, Victor Hugo alone would 
have been permitted, and him I had already 
gulped down in three huge doses* Still, my 
father was a very broad-minded man for his 
f ->och and situation. But there are limits — 
anyhow, in the Five Towns ! 

I used to order these perilous works from 
a bookseller who was not the official family 
bookseller ; and I used to say to him, as 
casually as I could: u Don't send it up; I'D 
call for it," One Saturday afternoon I 
reached home earlier than my father. This 
was a wonder, for it was no part of my business 
to leave the office before the 
head thereof. I was supposed 
to remain at the office until 
he had thought fit to go T and 
then to follow him at a decent 
interval. However, on that 
day I preceded him. Going 
into the dining-room f I saw 
on the corner of the sideboard 
nearest the door — exactly 
where my father's parcels and 
letters were put to await him 
— a translation of a novel by 
Paul Bourget which 1 had 
ordered, I have never been 
more startled than I was in 
that instant. The mere 
thought of the danger I was 
courting overwhelmed me, I 
snatched the volume and ran 
upstairs with it ; it might have 
been a bomb of which the fuse 
was lighted. At the same mo- 
ment I heard on the glass panel 
of the front door the peculiar metallic rap 
which my father made with his ringed finger. 
(He would never carry a latch-key.) Heaven 
had deigned to save me ! Distinguished as 
Paul Bourget is ; respectable as he is, there 
would have been an enormous and disastrous 
shindy over his novel had my father seen it. 
Whether the bookseller had sinned through 
carelessness, or whether, suspecting that I 
was ultimately bound for the inferno of Paris, 

he had basely hoped to betray me to my father , 
I do not know. But I think the kindest 
thing I can, though to send forth a French 
novel without concealing it in brown paper 
was perfectly inexcusable at that period in 
the Five Towns* 

Later I seemed to lose interest in French 
literature. It was not until I had been in 
London for a year or two that I turned 
towards it again. I remember making the 
delightful discovery that a French novel 
could, after all, be read in the original without 
a dictionary, provided one was content with a 
somewhat vague idea of the sense. The first 
French book I ever read in this way was 
Daudet's " Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine." 
I was then about twenty-three or twenty-four. 
Thenceforward I never ceased to read French, 
and, by a well-known mental process, 1 was 
continually learning the meaning of new words 
and phrases without consulting the dictionary* 
I used to buy a French newspaper nearly 
every day at a shop in Coventry Street. 
What I made of it all I cannot now conceive. 
Gradually the legend grew up around me that 

I tri\»tckcJ. she 


I was an authority on French literature, and 
when I became a reviewer French books were 
very frequently sent to me for criticism, 
because of my alleged special competence. 
1 would go to French plays in London, When 
indiscreet persons demanded, " But do you 
understand ? " I would reply, * ( Not all, of 
course," It was the truth ; I did not 
understand .j^l^j-, ,||tf 1 w^fi also in essence a 



Strange detail: I began to take private 
lessons in German (in which language also I 
had satisfied the University of London). I 
chose German because I thought 1 knew 
enough French ! Another strange detail : I 
used often to say to my friends, " As soon as 
I am free enough I shall go and live in Paris/' 
And yet 1 had no hope whatever of being able 
to go to Paris as a resident, i doubt if I had 
any genuine inten- 

it was my habit fLP^kr 

to make such idle 
forecasts and 
boasts; seemingly 
they convinced 
everybody but me. 
1 think now that 
something sub- 
conscious must 
have prompted 
them, The) r have 
all been justified 
by events. Chance, 
of course, has 
aided. Thus, 
from about the 
age of twenty-five 
onwards I used 
to say, " I shall 

marry at forty." I had absolutely no ground 
of personal conviction for this prophecy. But, 
by a sheer accident, I did happen to marry 
just at forty. And everyone, impressed, went 
about remarking, " He always does what he 
says hell do." 

Similarly, I did go to live in Paris. A 
remarkable group of circumstances left me 
free from all local ties to earn my living where 
I chose* I was then thirty-five. Did I fly 
straight to Paris ? Not a bit. I could not 
I went to Algeria first. 
I lingered in Paris. I 
very powerfully drawn 
towards Paris at the moment, I had to 
come to England to fulfil a social engagement, 
and then I returned to Paris for a few days, 
with the notion of establishing myself at 
Tours for a year or two, to " perfect " my 
French. I remained in Paris for five years, 
and in France for over nine years, liking 
and comprehending the French more and 
more, and feeling more and more at home 
among them, until now I do believe I have a 
kind of double mentality — one English and 
the other French. Naturally, when I settled 
in Paris, all my friends said again, " He 
always said he would do it, and he has done 
it-" My reputation as a man of his word was 

decide what to do. 
On my way home 
question if was 

made indestructible. But to me the affair 
presents itself as chiefly accidental. 

I had awful difficulties with the language. 
Somehow, very i1 logically, I thought that the 
mere fact of residence in Paris would mys- 
teriously increase my knowledge of the French 
tongue to a respectable degree. I remember 
that I was advised to haunt the theatre if I 
wished to ftl perfect " my French. The first 

play I saw was 
Edmond S£e J s 
H L'Indiscret/* at 
the Theatre 
Antoine. I entered 
the theatre hoping 
for the best, I 
had read the play 
in advance. I did 
not ? how ever j suc- 
ceed in compre- 
hending one single 
spoken word — not 
one. I had been 
studying French 
for nearly twenty- 
six years. The 
man in me who 
had written 
scores of 
11 authoritative " 
articles on French literature was deeply 
humiliated. I at once arranged to take 
lessons. Three or four nights a week I was 
to be seen in the first row of the stalls (so 
as to hear well) of the little theatres de quartier 
round about Montmartre. I seemed to make 
no progress for six months. Then, enchant- 
ingly, I began to understand bits of phrases 
heard in the street. I had turned the corner ! 
Heavenly moment ! 


The world revolves very rapidly under its 
appearance of stability. 

Only yesterday it seems that I was settling 
in Paris, And yet then I could buy Empire 
chairs (cr&isies) at sixteen shillings apiece ; 
I could buy an Empire bedstead for a couple 
of pounds, and a beautiful dressing-table, 
whose mirror was supported by the curved 
necks of the Imperial swans ? for three pounds ! 
If I went to Paris now and asked dealers for 
Empire furniture at such prices, I should be 
classed as a lunatic* I had lived in an hotel 
overlooking the Seine for some time, and I 
was taking possession of a fiat and furnishing 
it. I chose the Empire style for the furniture 
because I wan ltd a Freinch style, and the 
Empi^-Jt^;^ ,, i<>^f#gHl^,# n tih« means 



of a man who had to earn his living by 
realistic fiction* Louis Quinze and Louis 
Seize are not for writers ; neither is Empire , 
any more ! 

To acquire some real comprehension of a 
nation's character it is necessary to fit out a 
home in its capital. The process brings you 
at once into direct contact with the very 
spirit of the race. Especially in the big 
shops, which are so racy a feature of Paris 
life, do you encounter the French spirit, 
traditions, and idiosyncrasy. At some of the 
big shops you can buy everything that makes 
a home — except, of course, the second-hand. 
But you must not traverse the immemorial 
customs of home-making in France. Try to 
depart from the rule, even as to servants* 
aprons, and you will soon see that mysterious 
powers and influences are arrayed against you. 
The Republic itself stands before you in the 
shape of the shop-assistant. France is a land 
of suave uniformity. It is also at once the 
paradise and the inferno of bureaucracy. 
There the bureaucracy 
is underworked and 
underpaid. All which 
has been said before, 
uncountably often. 
Every Englishman is 
aware of it. And 
yet no Englishman is 
truly aware of it who 
has not set up a home 
in France. 

For example. 1 
wanted the gas to be 
turned on in my flat. 
A simple affair ! Drop 
a postcard to the com- 
pany telling the 
company to come and 
turn it on ? Not at 
all ! I was told that 

it would be better to call upon the company. 
So I called. 

11 What do you desire, monsieur ? -* 

u I am the new tenant of a flat, and I want 
the gas turned on. JN 

'* Ah ! You arc the new. tenant of a flat, 
and you want the gas turned on. M. Chose, 
here is the new T tenant of a flat, and he wants 
the gas turned on. Where should he be led to?" 

About a quarter of an hour of this, and then 
at last I am led by a municipal employe sure 
of his job and of his pension to the far-distant 
room of the higher employe appointed by the 
City of Paris to deal with such as me. This 
room is furnished somewhat like that of a 
solicitor's managin; 

(( Good morning, sir." 

** Good morning, sir/' 

"It appears, sir— M, Bennay, fourth floor, 
No. 4, Rue de Calais, sixth arrondissement, 
is it not ? — that you want the gas turned on, 
Will you put yourself to the trouble of sitting 
down, JL Bcnnay ? "" 

I sit down. He sits down. 

" Ah ! So you want the gas turned on ! 
Let us see, let us see ,J 

Hundreds of such applications must be 
made every day. But the attitude of this 
ceremonious official might be put into words 
thus : li A strange and interesting application 
of yours — to have the gas turned on ! Very 
remarkable ! It attracts me. The case must 
be examined with the care and the respect 
which it deserves/* 

The next moment the official astonishingly 
rises and informs me that the papers will 
arrive in due course. I depart. The papers 
do arrive in due course, papers of all colours 
and all complexities. One or two tips, and 

SAK! So yov'wfcrvk *n* i*^ turned on? 

VoL ii T ,-ia 

lg clerk. 

3 y Google 

I get the gas. Electricity was not so easy. 
The Treaty of Berlin did not demand more 
negotiations and diplomacy than my elec- 

On the other hand, I had no trouble with 
the police. Every foreign resident must 
report himself to the police and get a permit 
to exist. The machine for preventing the 
unwelcome from existing in France is a 
beautiful bit of engineering. I ignored the 
polire, and just went on existing. Nothing 
happened. Vet sundry men must have 
been bringing up families and providing 
dowries for their daughters on salaries which 
they received for duties which included 

looking after ipe, 

Original from 


1 70 


I said that it was necessary to fit out a 
home in a country in order to comprehend 
the national character. Perhaps that is not 
enough. You must get married in that 
country. Let none say that he knows his 
Paris until he has persuaded the mayor of 
some arrondissement to unite him in matri- 
mony to a woman, By the time the ceremony 
is over and the certifi- 
cate issued he will be a 
genuine expert in the TUw»it*r/«sTh* 

niceties of the French *^ mtto—t 



When from London I 
look hack at Paris, 
I always see the streets 
—such as the Rue Notre 
Dame de Lorette, the 
Rue des Martyrs, the 
Rue Fontaine, and 
the Rue d'Aumale (one 
of the most truly 
Parisian streets in 
Paris) — which lie on 
the steep slope between 
the Rue de Chateaudun 
and the exterior 
boulevard where Mont- 
mart re begins. Though 
I have lived in various 
quarters of Paris and 
on both banks of the Seine* it is to these streets 
that my memory ever returns. And though 
1 lived for many years in London, no London 
street makes the same friendly and intimate 
appeal to me as these simple middle-class 
streets of little shops and flats over the 
shops, with little restaurants, little caf£s y 
and little theatres here and there at the 

The morning life of these streets was 
delightful 3 with the hatless women and girls 
shopping, and the tradesmen — and, above all, 
the tradeswomen — polite and firm at their 
counters, and the vast omnibuses scrambling 
up or thundering down T and the placid 
customers in the cajis. The waiters in the 
cajis and restaurants were human ; they are 
inhuman in London. The concierges of both 
sexes were fiends, but they were hum£n fiends* 
There was everywhere a strange mixture of 
French industry (which is tremendous) and 
French nonchalance (which is charmingly 
awful), Virtue and wickedness were equally 
apparent and equally candid. Hyporrisy 
alone was absent. I could find more intel- 
lectual honesty within a mile of the Rue 

■nW were Ku> 

by GoOgic 

d'Aumale than in the whole of England* 
And, more than anything whatever, I prize 
intellectual honesty. 

And then the glimpses of domestic life in 
the serried fiats, poised storey beyond storey 
upon butchers' and grocers' and confec- 
tioners' and music-dealers' and repairers' and 
drapers' and cor set- makers 1 and walking- 
stick-makers' and 
" bazaars M ! Thousands 
of half-visible interiors 
within ten minutes' 
walk ! And the intense 
mystery that en- 
wrapped one's own 
house, reposing in the 
Jf\L immense discretion of 

In the concierge — who, by 

%y/Jf the way, was not a 

fiend. I never knew 
anything about the 
prodigiously genteel 
house of which 1 rented 
a fragment in the Rue 
de Calais, except that 
a retired opera singer 
lived over my head, 
and a pianoforte pro- 
fessor at the Conserva- 
toire somewhere under 
my feet. I nevtr saw 
either of them, but I 
knew* that the ex-opera 
singer received about a yard of bread every 
morning, and one and a half litres of milk. 

Every afternoon and sometimes in the 
evening a distant violin used to play, very 
badly, six bars — no more — of an air of Verdi's 
over and over again ; never any other tune ! 
The sound was too faint to annoy me, but it 
was the most melancholy thing 1 have ever 
heard. This phenomenon persisted for years, 
and I never discovered its origin, though I 
inquired again and again, Some interior, 
some existence of an infinite monotonous 
sadness, was just at hand, and yet hidden 
away from me, inviolate, Whenever I hear 
that air now I am instantly in Paris, and as 
near being sentimental as ever I shall be. 
The secret life of cities is a matter for endless 

My ambition had long been to inhabit the 
Rue d An male — austere, silent, distinguished, 
icv, and beautiful — and by hazard I did 
ultimately obtain a flat there, and so left the 
Rue de Calais. I tell you, I missed the un- 
discoverable and tragic violin of the Rue de 
Calais. To this day the souvenir of it will 
invariably fold me in a delicious spleen. 
'Original from 





The sole disadvantage 
of the abilitv to take an 
equal delight in town 
life and in country life is 
that one is seldom con- 
tent where one happens 
to be. Just v hen I was 
fully established in my 
ideal Parisian street I 
became conscious of a 
powerful desire to go 
and live in the French 
provinces. And I went. 
I sacrificed my flat and 
departed — in order to 
learn about the avarice, 
the laboriousness, the 
political independence, 
and the tranquil charm 
of the French peasant, 
and about the scorn 
which the countryside 
has for Paris, and about 
certain rivers and forests 
of France j and about 
the high roads and the 
inns thereon, and what the commercial 
travellers say to one another of a night in 
those excellent inns ; in short, to understand 
a little the fabric of the backbone of France. 

I often desired to be back again in Paris, 
and } of course, in the end I came back. And 
then I had the delightful sensation of coming 
back to the city, not as a stranger, but as one 
versed in its deviousness. I was able to take 
up at once the threads which I had dropped, 
without any of the drudgery and tedium inci- 
dent to one's first social studies of a foreign 
capital. I was immediately at home^ and I 
never felt 
more satisfac- 
tion in my 
citizenship of 
Paris than at 
this period. 
It was also at 
this period 
that I carried 
my Pari- 
sianism as far 
as I am ever 
likely to 
carry it 

After an 
interval of 
a quarter ^ 
of a cen- 
cury, I had 


every morrvmi 

caprice, my 



Z\.fcjout % y&rd of kre*<i 

tice in water - colour 
painting. One of my 
school - girlish produc- 
tions hung framed in 
the dining-room of a 
Parisian friend, whose 
taste was. at any rate 
in this instance, unduly 
influenced by his affec- 
tions, but who had a 
large and intimate ac- 
quaintance among the 
most modern French 
artists — by which I 
mean among the school 
known in England as 
the Post Impressionists, 
the school which was 
guffawed at last year in 
England, was treated 
with marked respect by 
the Times this year, and 
which in a fow years 
more will be worshipped 
in England as ignorantly 
as it is now condemned. I had a par- 
ticular admiration for the water-colours 
of a leader of this school, and I told my 
friend I should like to meet my hero* 
Nothing easier ! We met without delay at 
a lunch. Before the lunch I had said to 
my friend : " On no account let him see my 

My friend answered : "I shall most 
assuredly show him your water-colour/' 

I pretended to be desolated j but naturally, 
with the naive hopefulness of the rank 
amateur, I was secretly pleased. My hero 

was led to my 
water - col our , 
and gazed 
thereat with 
indifferent dis- 

u Monsieur," 
he said to me, 
" y o u h a v e 
three times 
too much 
/*} V I k M m and your 

work is utterly 
without in- 
... K ^ It is scarcely 

is utterly wfikout interest credible, but 

I nn n I f> J felt flattered, 



I 7 2 


I was en- 
chanted to 
find that I had 
three times too 
much clever- 
ness My hero 
and I grew 
friendly. I 
'visited his 
studio. We 
discussed art, 
"The only 
advice I ran 


you,' 1 he said, "is to 
wait until you are con- 
scious of an emotion 
before an object, and 
then paint what von 

Shortly afterwards I 
happened to be con- 
scious of an emotion be- 
fore an object— namely, 
the courtyard of the 
old house where I was 
living. So I painted 
what I felt one Decem- 
ber afternoon* I then 
invited my hero to lunch, and left the water- 
colour lying about. He spied it quickly 

" Man Dim I " he cried, excited. " You've 
done it ! Oh, you've done it this time ! 
Tres bien I Tres bun t Very interesting I 
Veritably interesting ! " 

(I should have kept this masterpiece as a 
sort of milestone in my 
swift career as a Post Im- 
pressionist, had not one of 
my American publishers 
caught sight of it and 
walked off 
intimidated by its 
impressionism, " I 
use this as a * jacket 3 
[paper covering] for one of 
your books," he said. And 
he did. He had it re- 
produced in colours, and 
calmly placed it on the 
bookstalls of the United 
States. I learnt afterwards 
that it was considered by 
trade experts as among the 
best commercial li jackets " 
of its season. Such can l>e 
the fruits of an emotion !) 

My hero suggested that 
if I wished to take jointing 

seriously I might attend the Post Im- 
pressionist academy of which he was a 
professor, I was afraid ; but, being 
ashamed of my timidity, I said 1 would 
go with the greatest pleasure. He took 
me. I entered the large studio under his 
majestic aegis as his protigi. It was a 
fearful moment. I was ten times more 
nervous than I have ever been when 
called before the curtain of a theatre, I 
trembled, literally* It seemed absurd 
that L a school-giriish amateur, should 
be there in that most modern of Parisian 
studios as a serious student of art. How- 
ever, I had burnt my boats. I had to 
summon my manhood and begin a char- 
coal drawing of the model ? a young 
Italian girl, I scarcely knew what I was 
doing. I glanced surreptitiously at the 
other students — about a dozen or so. The 
other students plan red surreptitiously at 
me. They were ali young, extraordi- 
narily young when compared to myself, 
I knew then that I was middle-aged. 

At the second (< rest " I persuaded 
myself that it was absurd to be dis- 
countenanced by a pack of boys. So I 
joined a group of them in the jauntiest 

manner I could 

assume and 

made artistic 

small-talk, f 

then perceived 

that they, in 

their turn, 

were rather 

with it, un- 




*nd rt^d not ck ^orJ 

awed by the middle-aged Englishman who 
waa evidently on such good terms with the 
august professor* 

"Come and have a look at my drawing/* I 
said, in a humorous tone, " Criticize it." 
(The professor had disappeared.) 

They came, politely. They gazed at the 
thing and said not a word. 

u Of course j the head's too small/* 1 
remarked, airily. 

" In effect/" said one of 
them, gravely, " the head 
is rather small/ 1 

Nobody said anything else, 
The sitting was resumed. 

It might be thought that, 
alter this baptism into a cult 
so acutely Parisian, I should 
have felt myself more than 
ever firmly rooted in the 
soil of France. But it was 
not so. For several years 
there had been gradually 
germinating in my mind the 
conviction that I should he 
compelled by some obscure 
instinct to return to Eng- 
land, where, unhappily, art 
is not cherished. I had a 
most disturbing suspicion 
that 1 was losing touch with 

England and that my work would 
soon begin to suffer accordingly. 
And one day I gave notice to my 
landlady, and then I began to get 
estimates for removing my furni- 
ture and books. And then I tried 
to sell to my landlady the fittings 
of the admirable bathroom which 
I had installed in her house, and 
she answered me that she had no 
desire for a bathroom in her house, 
and would I take the fittings 
away ? And then I unhooked 
my pictures and packed up 
my books. And, lastly, the 
removers came and turned 
what had been a home into 
a litter of dirtv straw. And 
1 saw the tail of the last van 
as it rounded the corner. And 
I gave up my keys so bright 
with use. And 1 definitely 
quitted the land where eating 
and love are understood, 
where art and learning are 
honoured, where women well 
dressed and without illusions are not rare, 
where thrift flourishes where politeness is 
practised, and where politics are shameful 
and grotesque. I return merely as a visitor. 
I should probably have enjoyed myself more 
in France, only I prefer to live in England 
and regret France than to live in France 
and regret England- I think the permanent 
exile is a pathetic figure. 

1 suppose I have a grim 
passion for England. But 
I know why France is the 
darling of nations. 


3 y Google 

She had no desire, tor A 

t*tKroom ml\tr Kou*re 
Original from 


A Cure for Coquettes. 


Illustrated by Tom PeJJie. 

ANCY PRIOR was on her 
way to the Bon Ton Dress 
Agency to sell her wedding- 
gown ! 

All her happiness lay buried 
in the white cardboard box 
which she carried clasped 
despairingly against her breast. To her over- 
wrought nerves the parcel seemed to eat into 
her heart like a live thing that had teeth — 
and tore. 

The sheeny, silken attire of a bride reposed 
coldly within the cardboard coffin. For so 
it had appeared to Nancy as she carefully 
embalmed her white bridal wonder-gown 
within its winding-sheet of tear-speckled 
tissue-paper. And she was quite sure that 
she had tied up the box with her own sore 
heart-strings. She was walking very slowly. 
At this rate she would most certainly lose 
the train which took her each morning to the 
City office in which she was employed. Well 
— she didn't care if she was late. She would 
be rather glad if Mr. Pinkerton senior did 
give her a week's notice. Nothing mattered 
to a girl who was on her way to sell her 

A sob of self-pity rose in her throat, a 
mutinous flash showed in her pretty, amber- 
brown eyes. 

What a tragic errand she was bent upon ! 

But now that he was going to marry Sally 
Stevens she would do it — if only to show him 
that she didn't care a rap. 

Besides, she wanted the money badly. 
The buying of the pretty trousseau, which 
she would never need now that her engage- 
ment to Jim Burton was broken off, had 
absorbed nearly all her girlish savings. 

Her mother's serious illness, following 
closely on the frustrated wedding, had 
swallowed up the last of the little nest-egg 
which Nancy had put by each week from her 
salary as a typist. 

The smell of spring was in the air. The 
day was full of hope and promise — to all but 
heart-empty Nancy. 

Yes. If she didn't hurry she would 
assuredly lose her train. Perhaps, since it 
had to be done, she had better get it over 

by L^OOgle 

With unsteady pulses and a heart which 
hammered irregularly against her breast— 
and the cardboard box — she stopped in front 
of the agency. It was a new.and very notice- 
able shop with a big, attractive plate-glass 
window, the shrine before which the feminine 
dress-hungerers of Balmer's Green worshipped 

A self-conscious wax model with primrose- 
coloured hair and pink cheeks wore a sky- 
blue evening toilette with the superior look 
of a lady whose dress entitles her to move in 
really smart circles. A white satin loque, 
trimmed with such a life-like imitation of his 
fur as would have deceived any but the most 
cynical among ermines, was marked down to 
eight-and-sixpence. And only the sourest 
spinster could have detected that it was not 
quite new. 

Nancy despondently clutched at the front- 
door handle and entered the shop. There 
was no turning back now. So she deposited 
the cardboard box upon the counter with a 
resolute thump. Then she sighed. 

" Good morning," said Miss Tompkyns, 
cheerily, from the other side of the counter. 
She was fair and plump, with pale, prominent 
blue eyes which looked as though they had 
been sent too often to the wash. Her air- 
cushion figure was comfortable and motherly. 
Powder lay like a white hoar-frost over her 
rather red face. 

Nancy's tremulous lips strove to return the 
shop-assistant's pleasant salutation. But so 
far as cheerfulness was concerned the attempt 
was a conspicuous failure. Slowly and with 
fumbling fingers she tried to undo her parcel. 
But her fingers trembled so that she could not 
untie the knotted string. 

" I'll undo it for you an J welcome. It's 
a bit awkward with your gloves on." Miss 
Tompkyns put it very tactfully. Her under- 
standing eye had taken in Nancy's pathetic, 
appealing little face, which told its own story 
of distress. 

Doubtless there was some truth in the 

accusation brought against Nancy by the 

other girls in the office that " she gave 

herself airs." But they were such naive, 

lovable little airs that nobody minded 


Original from 




There was no trace however this morning of out of the cardboard box as though she were 
the once coquettish and light-hearted girl who taking something soft and alive from a 
had played shuttlecock and battledore with cradle. 

the hearts of half the masculine contingent " I'm going to sell it/' Nancy announced, 

fiercely* Then, to 
conceal her tears, 
she laughed a hard 
little laugh. Her 
eyes had a hunted 
look. She watched 
the shopworn an 
who had taken 
possession of her 


on the staff of John Pinker ton, Son, and 

Miss Tompkyns unpacked the shimmering 
folds of silk with the coaxings semi-maternal 
tenderness with which a true woman handles 
pretty clothes- She patted and caressed it 

Digitized by ^QOfilC 

gown very much as a mother would 

guilty wretch who had stolen 

1 I made it myself, every stitch 

broidered true-lovers' knots and 

^appointed bride added, in an 

agonized voice. 

" Its perfectly sweet. Months and months 
that embroidery must have took/' the other 
said, admiringly. 

Nancy nodded gulpingly. She didn't 
venture to speak. She knew what would 
happen if she tried. 

" It's rather a bad job for you t pYaps, 
that Mme. Pouffine " — the principal of the 
agency — ■" is laid up with a cold. She might 
give mor£;i r ftjj|f^ie mi^ht give less than I. 




There's no telling. But I couldn't say more 
than thirty-five shillings and sixpence cash 

" Thirty-five shillings and sixpence ? " 
Nancy echoed, blankly. Perhaps she was 
thinking of all the love and hope and happiness 
she had stitched into its silken seams. " Why, 
the materials alone cost nearly four pounds." 

" Mind, I'm not saying it isn't perfectly 
sweet. But it's not everybody's style. It 
'ud suit you down to the ground. I'd just 
love to see you in it. But it ain't what most 
ladies would call chick and smart. And if a 
girl can't cut a fashionable figure at her 
wedding when can she hope to ? That's 
what I always say. And most girls agrees 
with me." 

" It's never been worn," said Nancy. Then 
she bit her lip and coloured painfully. 

" Dearie me ! " ejaculated Miss Tompkyns. 

There was so much kindness in her voice 
that Nancy's composure broke down. Under 
the unnerving effect of pity she burst into 
tears and told the whole story of her quarrel 
with Jim and their broken engagement. 

" And he's after another girl already, is 
he ? This Sally Stevens, a particular chum 
of yours, who works in the same office ? A 
nice, sly little tabby-cat she is, if people was 
called by their right names. I'd show him, 
and her too, if I was you." Miss Tompkyns's 
faded blue eyes held the light of battle. She 
too had known, in days gone by, what it was 
to have her young man decoyed away from 
her by another girl. 

" He passes this shop twice a day," Nancy 

"Does he, now?" commented the lady in 
charge of the counter. She spoke reflectively 
and her usually kind lips tightened vixenishly. 

41 You'd be sure to recognize him, once you 
saw him. He's so good-looking." 

Nancy showed all of a woman's pride in 
justifying her taste in masculinity. 

u Handsome is as handsome does," snapped 
the shopwoman. " But the good-looking ones 
is always the worst female heart-breakers. I 
wonder, now, if he'd recognize that gown of 
yours again if he saw it ? " 

A set, vindictive purpose showed on her 

" Recognize it ? " Nancy echoed, rather 
scornfully. " I should think he would. Why, 
he's seen it hundreds of times. Watched me 
embroidering it evening after evening for 
months and months." 

The girl's mind flew back to the pretty 
little rose-pink parlour where she and Jim 
were used to sit of evenings weaving happy 

rose-pink dreams of the days when they 
would live in a home-heaven of their own. 

" Why, of course he'd know the frock again 
in a minute," she reiterated. 

" Bless you, my dear, men's memories are 
as short as pie-crusts and their promises. 
But if you really believe your Jim would 
recognize that wedding gown of yours — I 
think it's rather chancy myself — I'll get 
1 upsides ' with him in a way he won't forget." 

But to all Nancy's pleadings for the 
satisfaction of her curiosity Miss Tompkyns 
turned an ear of adamant. 

" Never you mind, my dear. You just 
run along and catch your train." 

" You're not going to hurt Jim's feelings, 
are you ? " the girl asked, apprehensively. 

" Feelings ? " her champion repeated, with 
fine sarcasm. " How about him and his 
sly, pussy-cat Sally ? I'm not one of your 
woolly-lamb women who spoils men and 
reg'lar puffs them up with conceit. Bantam 
cocks in trousers, that's what I call most of 
'em. You leave your fine gentleman to me, 
my dear. I'll pay him out as he deserves. 
And here's two guineas for your gown, and 
chance what madame says, though she's a 
tongue inside her mouth as long as from now 
to next week." 

As the money was handed across the 
counter Nancy knew just how Judas must 
have felt when he took the thirty pieces. 
With a guilty conviction that she had sold 
her soul, she thrust the coins into her blue 
hand-bag and ran off breathlessly to catch 
the eight-forty-five up — the train by which 
she and Jim always travelled to the City 
office where both were employed. 

The dreary finality of her love-story struck 
at her as she mounted the station steps and 
found that she had five minutes to spare. A 
sideways glance from her charming eyes 
showed her that Jim had reached the station 

The platform manoeuvres which for the 
past two months he and she had evolved so as 
to avoid a face-to-face meeting now began. 
It was a distressing compulsion which forced 
them to go up by the same train. But there 
was no way out of it — unless she gave up her 
situation. This would be a serious risk to 
take. The post was a good one, and the 
salary enabled her to supplement her mother's 
meagre annuity. If she resigned she might 
be out of a position for months. 

While waiting on the platform of a morning 
she sometimes heard in the distance Jim's 
voice, or his lajghter, but not often his 
laught^ffy'^jfj'fivgf ^f^-||^ken on a new, 



grim, unsmiling look which was not very drearily that she would always remain un- 

flattering to Sally Stevens , to whom — so 
everybody said — he was now engaged. So 
that, added to Nancy's sorrow for her lost 
lover, was the new, gnawing pain of jealousy. 


How soon he had forgotten to want her, 
the girl though t^ bitterly. Although Jim 
had so readily consulted himself, she could 
never care for another man. With the 
wonderful wisdom of twenty, she decided 

loved and unwed. That the broken engage- 
ment was entirely her own fault only made 
matters worse, It always does. 

As she paced to and fro, avoiding nervously 
the spot at which Jim stood, she 
became aware, through the mysteri- 
ous faculty women possess of seeing 
without eyes, that Jim was walking 
deliberately towards her. Unless 
she turned tail and fled they must 
meet. Well— she wasn't going to 
show the white feather. As Jim 
approached,, his 
and her looks met 
full — and sympa- 
thetically — for a 
moment, Nancy's 
eyes were her 
crowning charm. 
They were brown, 
with curious, en- 
ticing little gold 
flecks in them* 
And she had a 
pretty turn to her 

The faint violet 
perfume of the 
girl's clothes 
struck at the man 
with a madden- 
ingly familiar 
sweetness. Her 
nearness caused 
him to catch his 
breath. For a 
brief second both 
lesitated. Then pride asserted 
itself. Interest faded from the 
four eyes and was replaced by 
a chill, imrecognizing stare. Jim 
slightly raised his hat — gazed 
si raisin in front of him — and 
passed on. 

They were playing the old, 
old lovers' comedy of " Let's 
pre Um d we don't care "—a game 
in winch hearts and happiness 
are used instead of dice. 

Simultaneously two limp, 
nerveless hands turned the tar- 
nished brass handles of two 
separate third - class compart- 
ments. The local engine gave a defiant snort ; 
then it started for Cannon Street, As the 
train steamed out of the station the porters 
slammed fhe carriage aoors with a vicious 

snap i^wfiW^fe.r d Nanrv lhat 



life had locked its door in their faces and 
shut them out of everything that was young 
and gay and happy. 

It was but a short walk from Cannon Street 
to the Pinkertons' office, that office which had 
seen the beginning of Nancy's great happi- 
ness — and the end of it. As she approached 
the entrance she carefully composed a 
smiling countenance and a cheap little 
air of triumph designed to throw dust 
in the watchful eyes of the other girls at her 
place of business. But it did not deceive 
even the lift-boy — who knew all about the 
affair. The broken engagement was an event 
of keen dramatic value to the office. It gave 
the staff something exciting to talk about. 
For love in distress is interesting to every- 
body and pleasing to many. 

" 'E ain't come yet/' the lift-boy announced 
with evil glee. 

" Who ain't come ? " Nancy retorted, 
somewhat snappishly. 

" W'y, Nephew Pinkerton, of course. Who 
else could I mean ? " her tormentor answered, 
with an air of rubbing it in rather effectively. 
" One of these days Pa Pinkerton '11 give 'im 
the sack. His lordship's late again. P'r'aps 
he's been run over by a motor-bus/' the boy 
hazarded, as he unlocked the lift gates. 

Nancy. rather hoped that he had. It was 
her foolish, empty flirtation with the junior 
partner of the firm which had broken her 
life — or, at any rate, her engagement. Nephew 
Pinkerton was an undecided, ineffective young 
man, who wore a single eye-glass and was 
compounded of cigarette-ash, drawl, and 
" side." He was not in the least attractive 
to Nancy, or to any other girl. But when 
she saw that her coquetries and eye-play 
— Eve's original sins, in short — annoyed Jim, 
she had persisted in and redoubled them. 
And the cad in Pinkerton had led him to 
boast of his easy conquest. 

Then the man in Jim had spoken, and the 
woman in Nancy had said too much. So the 
engagement was broken off. And Nancy's 
comforting conviction that Jim's storm of 
jealousy would blow itself out, as storms some- 
times do, had not been realized. 

Nephew Pinkerton treated pretty girls en 
bloc, as if they had been consigned to him on 
the approval plan, and all that he had to do 
was to announce his intention of retaining 
his choice for life. But the broken engage- 
ment had brought him to his mean little 
bearings. He did not intend to be " had " 
by a designing young typist. So when he 
and Nancy met unavoidably Nephew 
Pinkerton now bore a ludicrous resemblance 

Diqiiized by V^OOQ 

to a perambulating poker. Through his 
monocle he stared at the discomfited . girl 
with a hard, glassy, unrecognizing eye. 

" Good morning, dear," Sally Stevens said, 
in a gay voice, as her former friend seated 
herself at her desk. " How sweet you look." 
She gazed admiringly at the slender, pliant 
figure clad in a one-piece blue serge frock, 
with bands of white embroidery at the waist, 
throat, and wrists. 

Despite the burning jealousy and heart- 
torments which raged within, Nancy returned 
her rival's salutation with a radiant surface 

" Papa Pinkerton dictated all these letters 
last night after office hours. He wants them 
typed with extra special care. So I brought 
them to you, dear." The senior partner's 
confidential clerk handed Nancy a bundle of 

In doing so she displayed with ostentatious 
cruelty a new ring she wore — Jim's gift, of 
course, for it shone on the third finger of her 
left hand ! She had brought the letters to 
Jim's former sweetheart in a spirit of mean 
triumph, the humiliated girl reflected, bitterly. 
Aloud she said : — 

" All right. You can leave them on the 
desk. I'll start typing them at once." 

There was a plaintive catch in the pretty 
" sing " of her voice. But Sally did not 
appear to notice it. She was an angular, 
meagre-bodied young woman with a brisk, 
businesslike manner and steel-rimmed pince- 
nez. Not a bit the sort of girl Nancy would 
have expected Jim to love — and marry ! 

The jilted typist settled dully to her duty. 
It was of no use now, in face of that new, 
tell-tale ring, to cling to any hope of recon- 
ciliation with Jim. After all that had been, 
she now stood outside her lover's life. -He 
was going to marry Sally Stevens. Neverthe- 
less, Nancy had not ceased to love him because 
of his faithlessness and the heartaches he had 
caused her. No woman ever does % 

The morning hours moved along with heavy 
feet. Lunch-time came at last. Jim but- 
toned his light spring overcoat in preparation 
for going out to his midday meal. He took 
down his hat. Then he glanced towards 
Nancy's desk and saw that her big, brown eyes 
were watching him wistfully. His kind heart 
smote him for the girl's pale and tragic face. 
But he showed no sign of all that he felt. 
He had devised a sure cure for Nancy's 
pertinacious coquetry, and he meant to see 
it through. 

" If you're ready, Sal, we'll go to Gemini's 
Restaurant ©f%kVa^rcaTtreat." 




Sally gave a smiling assent. Nancy, watch- 
ing from the tail of a flaming eye, saw that 
Jim pinned a bunch of violets — the very kind 
he used to give to her — into her successful 
rival's severely plain " business suit." The 
newly-engaged couple then went off in a 
light-hearted way to eat a merry little meal 
together. Nancy consumed a Bath bun and 
a cup of tea in choking, miserable solitude. 

At the close of the long, weary day she 
interviewed Mr. Pinkerton, senior, in his 
private sanctum. She gave him a week's 

" Ah ! " he said, archly, shaking a fat 
finger at her with playful ponderousness. 
" A little bird whispered to me something 
about wedding-bells and orange-blossoms. 
Well, I can't complain. I did the same myself 
when- I was young. With the handsome 
legacy his uncle left him Mr. Burton can well 
afford to marry and set up in business for 
himself. But we're sorry to lose both of 

With stumbling agitation Nancy thanked 
her employer. If she had known of the legacy 
and that Jim was leaving the firm she would 
not have resigned, although she was beginning 
to loathe the office where her ex-lover had 
broken her heart. For this was how she still 
thought about it. Jim's standpoint had not 
occurred to her. For Nancy was too much of 
a woman not to know how to be utterly 

When she left Balmer's Green station a 
chill, drizzling rain was falling. She had no 
umbrella. Jim had always shared his with 

Despite the rainy night a big crowd stood 
in front of the Dress Agency window — Jim 
among them. 

What could they be looking at ? 

Her curiosity was soon satisfied. One 
panic-stricken glance through the plate-glass 
window showed her that Miss Tompkyns had 
despoiled the smiling wax model of her sky- 
blue costume, and had dressed her in Nancy's 

The mannequin's insipid primrose hair 
was covered with a golden-brown " trans- 
formation " amazingly like that of the girl 
who stood outside in the rain staring dejectedly 
at her waxen double, whose pose was in 
admirable imitation of herself. Miss 
Tompkyns had certainly accomplished her 
task with the inspiration of genius and a 
guile which was diabolically feminine. 

The touching tableau presented by the 
mateless waxen bride simpering beneath her 
snowy veil with its realistic trail of orange- 

by \j, 



blossoms could not fail to convey to Jim's 
consciousness that he was a heartless brute — 
a mere flashlight flirt. Miss Tompkyns had 
determined to reduce the young man to his 
worm-level. And she was triumphantly con- 
vinced that she had succeeded. 

Nancy's eyes deepened and flashed with 
anger. But what could she do ? The Dress 
Agency had bought and paid for her wedding- 
gown. And they were entitled to display it 
in .the most attractive fashion. Hot with 
shame and repentance, she flew home. 

Next morning she walked to the station on 
the other side of the street. 

Jim left the office earlier than usual that 
day. A curious smile showed beneath his 
brown moustache. Arrived at Balmer's 
Green, he walked straight to the Bon Ton 
Agency and strode inside. 

Miss Tompkyns knew without need of 
words who he was and what he had come for. 
She stiffened at the collar. She surveyed 
him with cold, crocodile eyes. 

" Will you kindly pack up the white dress 
that's in the window ? " he said, briskly. 

" It's four - eighteen - six," she snorted. 
What a fool she had been to label it ! She 
couldn't double the price now. 

He handed to the infuriated figure behind 
the counter a crisp new five-pound i)ote. 

" Don't you want the measurements ? " she 
inquired, defiantly. " It's a slender — not a 
stock size." 

" No, thanks. That's all right. I'm quite 
sure it will fit the lady it's meant for." 

" Oh ! It's for a lady, is it ? " Miss 
Tompkyns's curiosity got the better of her 
shop manners. 

" Yes — the lady I'm going to marry/' he 
retorted, flippantly. 

" Perhaps she won't like it. It isn't every 
girl who'd wear another young lady's wedding- 
dress." Her voice cut like a nipping east 

" Don't worry," he answered. " The girl 
I'm thinking of won't mind." His easy 
assurance got on Miss Tompkyns's nerves. 

She had a moment of magnificent reckless- 
ness in which she determined to slap Jim's 
face and decline to sell him Nancy's wedding- 
gown. At this crisis " Mme. Pouffine " — 
who in private life was Miss Nuppins — sailed 
angularly into the show-room and cast an 
attentive and proprietorial eye on her 
employie and the unusual circumstance of 
a masculine customer. 

With clenched fists and a tight-reefed 
mouth, Miss Tompkyns publicly and shame- 
lessly disrobed the waxen lady. Viciously 
Original from 




she folded the wedding garment in the same white cardboard box said, with a pleased 

box in which Nancy had brought it to the smile. " I'm much obliged for all your 

agency. Looking as though she were going kindness/' he added, sarcastically* " Good 

to bite him, she handed Jim the change from evening. ,} As he left the shop he whistled 

his bank-note. softly and cheerily under his breath. 

4i Shall I send the parcel home — sir ? ,s 

The outraged shopwoman's face grew as 




The watchful eyes of Miss Nuppms neces- 
sitated the conventions of the counter, But 
the Jast word sounded as though a snake had 

" No, thanks. I won't trouble you. The 
lady lives quite close by," the recipient of the 

Digitized by GoOglc 

hard as a hatchet, " Well, of all the heart- 
less brutes, he's the limit ! Throws over one 
girl. In less than a week engages himself to 
another, That ain't enough, but my lord 
ups and buys the first girls wedding-gown as 

a present fox number two.** 




" Well, I never ! " ejaculated Miss Nuppins, 
overcome by her assistant's concise recital 
of such bare-faced masculine baseness. " I'd 
have expected such a man to have hoofs and 
horns. Instead of that he's remarkably 

" That sort always is," Miss Tompkyns 
announced, with the air of one who knew. 

Half an hour later Nancy's lagging feet 
bore her wearily homeward. As in the 
morning, she walked on. the opposite side 
of the street. She was determined not to 
look in the Bon Ton windows. But as she 
reached the spot her eyes mutinied. They 
stole a flashlight peep at the forbidden. Then 
she flew across the street. Her widened eyes 
fixed themselves with horror upon the shop- 

Her wedding-gown was gone ! Once more 
the waxen lady assumed superior, simpering 
airs in the sky-blue silk toilette. 

The terrible news that Jim had bought 
the gown as a present for Sally Stevens was 
imparted to her by Miss Tompkyns, who had 
watched for Nancy's passing through an 
eyelet-hole in the majestic red velvet curtains 
which draped the shop-front. 

" And I'd go and tear it off her tabby-cat 
back if I was you. It's what any lady would 
do," Miss Nuppins's right-hand asserted, 
with flaming cheeks and homicidal eyes. 

But Nancy's courage was beaten out of her. 
She was too spiritless to heed Miss Tompkyns's 
extended programme of the retaliations it 
was possible to practise upon Sally Stevens 
and her base accomplice. 

Pale and tear-stained, she trudged home- 
ward. With Jim the walk from the station 
to her mother's six-roomed stuccoed villa 
used to seem so aggravatingly short. The 
newly-made suburban road between two dead 
walls plastered with picture-palace posters 
now seemed interminably long and unutter- 
ably dreary. A courting couple walked in 
front of her. Their demonstrative arm- 
twinings were more than the unkissed girl 
could endure. The sweet breath of spring 
was in the air. The lettuce-green lilac- 
bushes were bursting into flower. She 
thought of the delightsome Sundays when 
she and Jim had cycled together in green- 
hedged lanes, or walked hand in hand looking 
for golden daffodils or for the first peep of the 
primroses on the grassy banks. 

How empty her week-ends and evenings 
were now ! 

When she reached home she went into the 
rose-pink-chintzed parlour once radiant with 
happy memories of love and him. It seemed 
now like a grave in which all her girlish light- 
heartedness was buried. She sank listlessly 
into a chair, rested her gold -brown head 
upon the red rep tablecloth, and burst into 

Jim found her there a few minutes later, 
when he came in carrying the white card- 
board box triumphantly in his arms. He 
raised the pale, tear-blotted young face and 
looked very tenderly into the eyes of the girl 
he loved. The wistful shadows in their gold- 
flecked depths struck at his heart and con- 
science. He knew then that he and Sally 
Stevens had carried their " cure for a 
coquette " too far. A girl's wilfulness and 
her love of flirtation had been too heavily 

" Can you ever forgive me, Nancy, 
darling ? " he said, very softly. 

As she turned towards him her brimming 
eyes were arrested by the white cardboard 
box on the table. With his handkerchief 
Jim tenderly mopped the water-courses on 
the girl's cheeks. 

"I — thought — the — box — was — for — 
Sally," she sobbed, heavingly. " Everybody 
was sure you were engaged to her. The shop- 
woman said you bought my frock for the girl 
you are going to marry." 

" Well, isn't it so ? Aren't you going to 
marry me, darling? " he asked, smiling. Jim 
had a very winning smile. He kissed her 
cheeks, her lips, and her eyes. How delightful 
it was* to cry her heart out on his broad 
shoulder ! 

A couple of hours later, after supper, Jim 
sat smoking and thinking. Nancy was close 
beside him, curled up cosily among the rose- 
pink sofa-cushions. 

" We must ask Miss Tompkyns to our 
wedding, sweetheart. Good old Tompkyns," 
he said, takmg the pipe from his mouth. 

" To-morrow is Saturday. We'll spend the 
afternoon primrosing, just we two together, 
Jim, darling," she answered. 

Then the little rose-bud clock chimed the 
old signal for Jim's departure. He set his 
kissing marks upon the girl's happy cheeks. 
Then he went home to his lodgings and 
jubilantly gave his landlady a month's 
notice. For he and Nancy were going 
to move to the " home-heaven " of their 

by Google 

Original from 

The Mystery of the Sap. 

v/ itn Striking Original Experiments. 
Illustrated with Photographs hy John J. Ward. 

OLLOWING the lull of winter 
comes that familiar but never- 
theless remarkable phenome- 
non of the tall hare branches 
of trees quietly bursting apart 
the scale-leaves of their buds 
and revealing a delicate 
tracery of green, which rapidly changes into 
a rich garment of thick foliage ♦ Almost 
at the same hour, too, every bare patch of the 
brown earth is similarly clothed with the first 
leaves of tiny seedlings, which again quickly 
mature into the familiar her- 
bage of summer days. 

Why this sudden and won- 
drous change ? What has hap- 
pened to cause those rich, 
energy-yielding materials 
stored in tree-trunks and seeds 
to so vigorously revive their 
activities ? Some huge wave 
of energy seems to have com* 
menced its course through the 
earth, gathering volume as it 
travels, until it reaches its 

How the raw sap travels 
from the absorbing roots be- 
neath the ground to the top- 
most twig on an oak or elm 
tree, more than one hundred 
feet above, and to nearly four 
or five times that height in 
the case of some of the mam- 
moth gum- trues (eucalyptus) 
of the Tasmanian forests, and in the gigantic 
Wcllingtonia of California, has long puzzled 
the physicist to explain. The old idea 
that capillarity is the factor at work, the 
fluid being conveyed up the trunk and 
branches after the manner of oil through 
the wick of a lamp, becomes an altogether 
inadequate explanation. Especially is this 
so when we realize that, in some of the 
internal tissues of the stem^ the pressure 
exerted reaches from eight to twenty atmo- 
spheres, or in other words from one hundred 


Fin. 1. 


up the plant item and, lett-ei 

and twenty to three hundred pounds to the 
square inch — a force greater than that in the 
boiler of a normal rail way -engine. 

This mighty pressure, scattered more or 
less irregularly through the tissues of the tree, 
drives the sap to the buds and forces them 
open, expands their leaves, and is continually 
at work wherever the process of building 
new structures is going on. It is obvious, 
therefore, that the engineering arrangements 
for the conducting and controlling of this 
powerful stream of life-giving sap must be 
very perfectly organized. In- 
deed, they are more than 
that ; they present marvels of 
mechanical construction 
which are not only astonish- 
ing on account of their per- 
feet ion, but are so minute 
that man can only penetrate 
the mvsteries and beautv of 
their structure by means of 
high -power microscopes and 
careful chemical investiga- 
tions, Even then he is left 
baffled and wondering. 

We propose to invite the 
reader to accompany us, as it 
were, into these normally in- 
visible engine - houses within 
the plant structure, not only 
to examine the marvels of 
mechanical ingenuity to be 
found there, but also to con- 
sider those mysterious forces 
which set the " pumps " in action and apply 
themselves vigorously or gently as may be 
required of them in the welfare of the plant 

The familiar sunflower plant which in the 
course of the summer months produces a 
strong stem from six to eight feet in height, 
bearing abundant leaves and huge heads of 
flowers, will well serve for consideration of 
structural details. In Fig. i is shown a 
photograph of a tiny portion of the central 
pith of the QlS&i/i&ktte'riippears under the 


millions of which build 



Fit. 2*— Swnt of the cells shown in 

Fib. I Ken in ihe direction of their 


" eye " of a 
it is there seen 
to be composed 
of a large num- 
ber of cells in 
close contact 
with each other, 
just like the 
bricks in the 
walls of a house. 
Indeed, these 
tinv cells are 
the "bricks" 
which build up 
the plant struc- 
ture. If we cut 
the stem in a 
manner, show- 

ing these cells in the direction 
of their length, they appear 
as shown in Fig. a, where they 
are seen to be more or less 
oblong in shape, and, besides 
being arranged side by side, 
they are placed in rows end 
on end, from the base to the 
summit of the stem. 

The cells shown in the two 
photographs would, in each 
case, fit with room to spare in 
the space occupied by the full 
stop at the end of this sentence. 
Their interior is occupied with 
a transparent, jelly - like sub- 
stance known as protoplasm, 
or life-material, and from such 
simple cells are derived all the 
more complex tissues within 
the plant structure. In the earliest stages 
of a plant its structure consists almost 
entirely of cells of the simple type shown in 
Figs. 1 and 2 7 but immediately leaves begin to 
form the lateral walls of some of the rows 
of ceHs commence to thicken, while their end 
walls become absorbed. In this manner the 
rows of cells arc modified into long tubes of 
various diameters, as shown in Fig. 3. 

In trees this thickening of the tubes con- 
tinues until they become what we know as 
solid wood. In fact, when we saw through 
the trunk of an oak tree, we are simply sever- 
ing myriads of these woody tubes, all of which 
are so small and closely packed together that 
to our eyes they give the impression of a 
solid substance- Nevertheless, they ail had 

Fia. 3. — Showing how trie row* of eel It 

wilhin tkc ticrn * itructurc gradually 

change into water- maim. 

their origin from simple rows of soft and 
delicate cells similar to those shown in 
Figs. 1 and 2, 

The walls of the tubes do not become 
equally solid^ but thicken irregularly in 
various recognized ways. Some develop a 
spiral thickening, and are known as spiral 
vessels or tubes ; others become ringed at 
intervals and are termed annular ; still others 
develop netted thickening over their surface, 
and are called reticulated vessels. In Fig. 3 
this irregular thickening of the walls is shown 
in the broadest tubes, while in Fig, 4 it is 
still more clearly exhibited. 

At first these tubes appear in isolated 
strands or bundles, embedded amongst the 
simple pith-cells, and in trees they are 
arranged in a ring. As the bundles increase 
in size they eventually meet, and then form 
a more or less irregular band- In Fig. 5 a 
section of an oak twig is 
shown magnified to reveal the 
band of wood tissues. In 
the centre of the photograph 
the ground or pith -cells are 
seen, and immediately out- 
side these appears the dark- 
coloured hand of wood ele- 
ments, A lighter band of small- 
celled tissue follows, which the 
botanist terms the cambium 
cells, and it is these small cells 
that give origin to the new 
layers of cells which are gradu- 
ally changed into wood tubes 
or vessels, in the manner shown 
in Fig. 3. 

The cambium tissue is con- 
tinually dividing up its cells 

and depositing 
them in layers 
on the inside of 
the stem., and 
these are wood- 
forming cells. A% 
they harden the 
cambium ex- 
pands to allow 
room for further 
layers ; in this 
way, while add- 
ing wood to the 
central area, it 
is also ever in- 
cr easing the 
girth of the 

by Google 

Fiff, 4. ~" The walcr-mains hardened 
and fully developed. 

Original from 




stem. Beyond the cambium, still working 
from the centre outwards, is a narrower band 
of dark-looking tissue, and as this has largely 
to do with the conveyance of the elaborated 
sap downwards to the roots and other parts, 
it need not concern us very much here. Still 
farther outsictej more ground-cells similar to 
those of the central pith are found, these 
being enclosed with layers of bark-cell.s. 

As it is not an easy matter to teach the 
general reader structural botany in a few 
paragraphs, let us recapitulate. A fresh 
green stem is com- 
posed of millions 
of tiny cells of the 
pith type, among 
which are strands 
of similar cells 
which have be- 
cortie modified 
into tubes or 
which extend 
up and down 
the stem, 

serve a mechanical function ; consequently 
they never afterwards grow larger — they 
have become functionally specialized in the 

The structure of the roots reveals much the 
same features of cells and vascular or wood 
tissues, and these join up with those of the 
stem, forming a complete arrangement of 
lf water-pipes J) from root-tips to the highest 
bud above ground. 

It is a common notion, when we see the 
roots of a plant or tree penetrating the soil 

in all directions, that 
they absorb water 
and convey it to the 
Stem and leaves. That 
is an idea, however, 
which needs some 
modification, for the 
function of the roots 
themselves is 
(i)to penetrate 
the ground and 

giving it 
strength and 
These strands 

in woody trees unite to form 
a band, which gradually in- 
creases layer by layer from 
the modification of cambium 
cells until a solid wood trunk is built up. 
It is important that we should understand 
the origin and structure of these wood 
elements in the plant stem, for these are the 
water-pipes and mains through which the 
raw sap is carried up from the roots, for when 
the cells become wood-tubes they lose their 
protoplasm, or living material, and simply 

Digitized by G* 

Fig h. A rcitiixi of a young twig ci an oak Iree, ihowiniz I he 
arrargemmt of the tiny celh and the ilrang bands of tubular tiuun 
which conduct the sap through the item, Magnified thirty diamcten. 

explore suit- 
able moist 
areas for the 
necess ary 
water sup- 
plies, and (2) 
to anchor 
the plant 
firmly to the 
ground. The necessity for strong anchorage 
is readily understood when we see a large 
tree uprooted by a fierce gale, and conse- 
quently the root-branches of a large tree 
are very extensive, as shown in Fig, 6. 

It is not such roots, however, that are 
gathering in the huge supplies of sap required 

bv the countless .leaves, flowers, and fruits 
Original from 




r V * *ffr| 



<*i v £&*^i 

Fig, 6.— How lhe rwls of a large beech tree penetrate the sail, 

above ground. That function is performed 
by extremely tiny root-hairs, a host of which 
appear on a restricted zone a little distance 
behind each young root- tip. It should be 
clearly understood that these hairs are not 
the root-fibres which we see when we pull up 
a seedling, or turn out a plant from a pot in 
which it has been growing, indeed, these 
absorbing hairs are so small that there may 
be as many as three or four hundred of them 
on an area of the root- fibre equal to that of a 
pin's head. Yet it is these tiny hairs which 
convey fluids to the stem, sometimes with the 
ultimate internal pressure equal to that of 
the steam in the boiler of a railway-engine. 

These root-hairs are very remarkable 
structures, and their existence is very short- 
lived, for as the root- tip grows and increases 
in length new hairs are formed, while those 
behind shrivel and fall away. In this manner 
the little army of absorbing hairs keeps an 
equal distance from the root-tip ? which is 
threading its way through the soil and seek- 
ing moist places. The whole group of hairs 
of the root-fibre may not occupy more than 
one- tenth of an inch of its length (Fig* 7), 
yet they are gathering in sufficient moisture 
(with the mineral matters of the soil dis- 
solved therein), not only to support the 
comparatively thick root-fibre from which 
they spring, but also to send up abundant 
additional supplies for the requirements of 

VoL ri^-20. 

the leaves, flowers, and fruit high up above 

So marvellously do they absorb water that, 
before it has penetrated many of the outer 
layers of cells within the root-fibre , it may exert 
a pressure there equal to three atmospheres p 
or forty-five pounds to the square inch. 
This pressure passes on the water by diffusion 
through the successive layers of ground-cells 
of the root until the wood-tubes are reached, 
which during sunlight always have a greater 
or lesser tendency to be emptied of water, 
as it is then being continually raised in 
the stem, and there conveyed to the leaves, 
where it is quickly evaporated into the 

The tubes also form an almost closed 
system, so far as the admittance of air is 
concerned ; in fact, if air penetrated them 
the sap would be unable to continue its 
upward course. 

We have previously observed that the walls 
of the wood-tubes are thickened irregularly 
(Fig. 4), and it is through their thinner parts 
that the water penetrates, those portions 
being very permeable ; they are, however, 
not actual apertures, the water penetrating 
by inward diffusion. Once in the tubes it 
joins the general current^ which travels to all 

Fig. 7 + — Put of a raoL^rjLe b diowitii jti delicate hairs which ab*orb 
water wluhucii f^m ihc «ai!. MffJiTRifird ore hundred diamcief*- 

u un j\ IT Ur mlLrN'.jMPJ 








Fig. 6. Fig 9. Fig. 10. R B . M. Fig. 12. 

Fig. 8.— A blown egg containing treacle with its baie placed in a. jm of water, the ihell being diuolved from that pari, but the tkin, or 
inner ntfrnbuv 1 , remaining unbroken. The myitenoua natural force known aj oernoiift hat in one hour forced the heavy treacle up the 
tube to the point marked Fig. 9," Ten minutes, later, after piecing in sunlisht Fig, 10.— Height attained mt the end of twenty 

minulci- Fig, II. — After half an houi it had ascended about one foot. Fig, 12. — Jn. forty minulei the top of the tube was 

reached— a total height of nearly tixteen inchei. 

parts of the plant structure. When we 
examine a leaf and observe its nervures or 
veins, as they become thinner and thinner, 
and eventually disappear near the tip or 
edge of it j we then see where the wood elements 
or water-pipes terminate their course. 

Although we have shown the connection 
with the minute root-hairs working in darkness 
below the soil, and the leaves and flowersspread 
out to the atmosphere and sunlight above, 
yet this does nothing towards explaining why 
the moisture of the soil penetrates the plant- 
hairs so vigorously. Man is well aware that 
he cannot convey water several hundred feet 
into the air without the assistance of elaborate 
pum ping-engines , or similar mechanisms ; 
yet the plant seems to possess none of these 
arrangements* The physicist consequently 
asks, £< What force is it that causes water 
to enter the plant structure in so extraordinary 
a manner, and to exert such high pressures ? " 
For a reply to the question he proceeds to 

Taking an ordinary hen's egg, he removes 
its contents by the process known as blowing, 

using the method now usually adopted — 
namely, by drilling a hole at one end only. 
That successfully accomplished, he then 
places the uninjured end of the egg in an 
acid, which dissolves off a portion of the 
shell, but does not affect the tough inner 
membrane or skin, which has to remain whole. 
The egg-shell is then filled with a heavy 
liquid, such as treacle, and the top of it at 
the drilled hole carefully spread over with 
sealing-wax to support a long piece of glass 
tubing above the hole, the connection being 
made so that no leakage can occur. 

This rather difficult experiment successfully 
performed, the physicist argues thus : " I 
have here something analogous to a large 
vegetable cell filled with jelly-like protoplasm. 
Will water penetrate this artificial cell through 
the closed membrane ? " He places the end 
portion of the egg from which the shell has 
been dissolved into a jar of water, and the 
result of such an experiment is shown in 
Fig, 8, as it appeared at the end of one hour. 

It will be ifiiacraltfeffluTithe egg is steadily 
ab S ot^H WER ^^pr M ^ H |gicf.jmembrane at 




Fig- 13. — A highly- Piasnili 
young root-hair, i howing, that it 
it a tingle vegetable cell protrud- 
ina iti outei wall Into a long 
tube. Magnified three hundred 

its base, and, being 
full to start with, it 
cannot hold more ; 
consequently, either 
the egg-shell must 
burst, or some of the 
treacle be forced up 
the tube, and the 
latter^ offering the 
least res i stance , is 
naturally what takes 
place. In a warmer 
temperature the 
absorption of the 
water becomes much 
more rapid } as shown 
in Figs* 9 to n, 
where ten-minutes 
intervals are marked 
on the tube. Fig, 12 
shows the top of the 
tube reached, a total 
height of nearly six- 
teen inches, when* to 
prevent the treacle 
from coming over, 
the water at the base 

peculiar pro- 
perty or force 
e x e r c i sed by 
solutions of 
crystal-like sub- 
stances when 
separated from 
water , or weaker 
soluti ons of 
crystal -produc- 
ing materials , 
by a semi-per- 
meable m e m- 
brane, gives it 
the name u os- 
mosis/* from 
the Greek asmos 
— an impulse, or 

We now turn 
to the minute 
root-hairs j and 
more carefully 
examine their 
structure. In 
Fig. 13 one of 
these hairs is 

Fig. 14. — The minute porea* or mouth*, 

of the leaf tii&uei, through which, walei 

U p&ti&d to the atmosphere, Magnified 

two hundred and fifty diameten, 

was removed. Had the tube been longer, the 
treacle and added water would doubtless have 
continued to travel upwards until the fluid 
within the egg-shell and that of the external 
water had become both of the same sweet 
solution of uniform composition, when the 
force would cease to 

Similar experiments 
may be made in quite 
a variety of ways with 
glass tubes and jars, 
filled with sugar and 
other solutions , closed 
with a bladder-mem- 
brane at their mouths, 
and then immersed 
in more watery solu- 
tions, when the 
bladder-m embrane 
becomes pushed out- 
wards ; or if the solu- 
tion of sugar were 
outside, and the water 
in the closed vessel, 
the membrane would 
be pushed inwards, 
the action continuing 
until the fluids were 
of equal density. 

The physicist, hav- 
ing demonstrated this 

F. a , 

shown highly magnified at an early stage, just 
when it commences to protrude from the root- 
fibre into the soil. The magnification at once 
shows that the hair is nothing more than one 
of the outer cells of the root-fibre itself, and 
that it only differs from the cells immediately 

above or below it in 
that its outer wall 
has protruded into a 
finger-like tube 3 the 
living protoplasm 
within it circulating 
through the whole 
tube, just as it does 
in the original cell. 

The foot-hair, then, 
is a modified cell. How 
does that cell absorb 
water ? The physicist 
re plies j "By the pro- 
cess of osmosis," The 
protoplasm of the 
cell, he con tends j is a 
fluid of a character 
very different to the 
water outside the 
hair, and the water 
is consequently ab- 
sorbed, just as it was 
in the experiment of 
no the egg and treacle- 

*-* w nM^ilftirrtrMicHiB!»™dy f a**, 

■ i-j.-i n - ir v of nettle I 

1 88 


the penetration of moisture and the con- 
sequent rising of the sap is a purely 
mechanical process } over which the plant 
itself has no control, so long as the proto- 
plasm of its cells contains more salts and 
crystal- producing 
substances than the 
water outside them. 
That is where the 
living cell or root- 
hair differs from the 
artificial product of 
our experiment, for 
we know very well 
that the root -hair has 
full control over the 
amount of moisture 
it absorbs. More- 
over, it possesses 
great powers of 
selection as to what 
mineral matters it 
absorbs in solution. 
Different kinds of 
plants, although 
growing together, 
often require very 
different food mate- 
rials. Peas and beans 
draw largely on lime, 
grasses select silica, 
while potatoes and 
turnips seek potash ; 
and so, more or less, 
every species of plant 
differs in its require- 
ments. Furthermore, 
while these tiny root- 
hairs absorb water, 
they also have the 
power to secreteacids 
of suitable character 
to dissolve the par- 
ticular mineral sub- 
stances required for 
the plant food. 

While, therefore, osmosis may act in the 
plant as a purely physical force, yet it is 
under the control of the vital force of the 
living protoplasm within the celh Indeed, 
the protoplasm can of its own inherent ten- 
dencies so change its substance, by secretion 
of materials of its own manufacture, that 
osmotic action may be utilized to the full 
or made to cease almost entirely. In this 
manner the root-hair is enabled to control 
the fluids which it conveys into the plant, 
and to absoib into its structure only what the 
life-force within it urges it to gather. The 

osmotic action of the root-hairs, therefore, 
becomes a very different matter from the 
purely physical force exhibited in the experi- 
ment of the egg and treacle, and we 
consequently begin to understand why the 

Fig- 16. — The item of the 

geranium plant haft betn 

•eve red and ■ piece of glau 

tubing interposed. 

Fig. 17.— Tea days later. Notice 

that the flower* atiLL continue to 


Fig. 18 —On ihe fifteenth 

day. The flowers are it ill 

developing, hut the leave* 

are deteriorating. 

different species of plants are enabled to select 
their food materials^ and also to regulate the 
pressure exerted by the stream of sap within 
them in such a manner as to build only those 
structures which their various hereditary 
tendencies require of them. 

Such are the primary forces at work in 
raising the sap, but there are also living cells 
in the leaves which play a considerable part 
in creating a rapid upward flow. Much more 
water is absorbed by the innumerable little 
armies of root-hairs below the soil than is 
usedl J^'^sSi)^ i^d;.|th^|«.^ti||erfluous water 



is evaporated through the pores or stomata 
of the leaves (Fig. 14). These stomata are 
often very numerous ; a square inch of the 
under surface of a lilac leaf may contain as 
many as a hundred and sixty thou sand , and 
the same area of a holly leaf nearly sixty-four 
thousand j while by way of contrast the 
mistletoe in the same space possesses only 
two hundred— but perhaps that is because 
the mistletoe is a dishonest plant which does 
not altogether earn its own living. These 

Fiifr l9r~The fame plant 
producing angiKer flower- 
ing branch at the end of 
ten weeks. 

Fie, 20,— Three months later 

il w« in full bloom again, 

nUhaugh the branch wai 


numerous mouths or pores open under the 
influence of light and warmth and close during 
darkness or cold. 

Their function is to rapidly evaporate a 
watery vapour from the leaves into the 
atmosphere , and they are usually abundant 
near to where the wood -tubes terminate their 
course in the leaf structure — as veins. In 
this manner, during the period of active 
growth, the stream of sap is encouraged 
upwards by this rapid transpiration of aqueous 
vapour j the food materials that it brings 
with it then being greedily absorbed by the 

developing cells for the purpose of growth, If , 
however, the soil becomes chilled so that 
the young root-hairs cannot absorb moisture, 
the two (f guard -cells " at the mouth of each 
stoma promptly close, and so reserve the 
stock of water within the plant tissues. So 
that in the transpiration of this watery vapour 
we have another important factor in the 
elevation of the sap, and which, although 
purely of a physical character, is yet again 
controlled by the living action of the tiny 
guard-cells of the stomata. 

The amount of water discharged into the 
atmosphere by the process of transpiration 
is very astonishing. Fig. 15 shows two 
stems of nettles placed in water, the latter 
being covered by a piece of card to prevent 
evaporation from the water surface, The 
leaves, eighteen in all, were then completely 
covered with a glass vessel and exposed to 
quiet sunlight for fifteen minutes, by which 
time the covering glass had become coated 
with moisture on its interior. The glass was 
then weighed on a chemical balance , and as 
its weight was known before the experiment 
the additional weight of the water could be 
readily calculated, the result showing that 
■3095 grammes of water had passed from the 
eighteen leaves into the atmosphere during 
fifteen minutes. With a little further cal- 
culation it is easy to show that those same 
leaves under the same conditions would in 
slightly under nineteen days evaporate one 
pint of water. A sunflower of six feet in 
height , during active growth, is calculated 
to give off more than a quart of water per 
day , while the leaves of an oak tree may pass 
one hundred and fifty gallons or more into 
the atmosphere during the summer months. 
An original and curious experiment which 
well illustrates the persistence of the upward 
current of the sap is shown in Figs. 16 to 20, 
where the stem of a geranium plant is seen 
severed, with a piece of glass tube interposed, 
the tube being first filled with water, and 
then the leaf-bearing stem re-attached, the 
whole being held together with adhesive tape. 
The Jesuit of the experiment is shown in 
the descriptions given beneath the photo- 
graphs, and the hint may perhaps be useful 
to florists and gardeners who by accident 
should break a choice show flower or plant. 
With the stems placed in water the buds 
could never mature sufficiently to reach a 
flowering stage three months ahead, but when 
connected with the direct sap supply of the 
root it opens up much greater possibilities. 
In the experiment fjreat care must be taken 

not to^PrfW^hfe^ the tube - 

Tne Affair of tke 
Montagu Diamonds. 


Illustrated by J. R. Skelton. 

Those of our readers who took so much interest in the previous exploits of Judith 
Lee, lip-reader, will be glad to find in these pages one more of her adventures. 

ASSING through the Embank- 
ment Gardens one cold, bleak 
afternoon in March, I saw a 
man accost a woman who was 
some little distance in front 
of me. As he spoke she 
turned her head, and, having 
looked at him, started running as for life. 
The man stopped, stared after her, and 
laughed ; then, turning on his heels, began 
to retrace his steps. I saw his face quite 
clearly. Words which he muttered to himself 
were framed upon his lips, sufficiently 
obviously for me to follow them. 

" Very well, my dear, you wait a bit. You 
haven't quite learned your lesson yet." 

He was a nondescript-looking sort of person 
— indeed, although he was, perhaps, not more 
than thirty, in a sense the whole man showed 
signs of wear. As he neared me he had the 
impertinence to smile. I decided that there 
was something about him which I did not 
like at all. 

When I got on to the Embankment I saw, 
on the other side of the road, the woman who 
had run away. She was leaning against the 
wall beside the river, holding one hand against 
her side, gasping for breath. My curiosity 
aroused, I asked her : — 

" What's the matter ? Are you feeling 
ill ? " 

" A man — spoke — to me, and — frightened 
me — nearly — out of my senses/' she answered, 

" What did he say to you ? What sort of 
man was he ? " 

" He — was the man — who — was the cause 

— of all my trouble. I — lost my situation — 
because of him." 

" How was that ? " 

" He — made them think — I had stolen 
things, and — I hadn't. They — turned me 
away — without a character. I — haven't been 
able — to get — another situation since, and — 
I'm nearly starving." 

I believed her ; I had seen hungry women 

" Come with me," I said ; " we'll get 
something to eat." 

I took her to a popular restaurant in the 
Strand. I had to take her arm in mine to 
enable her to get as far. 

In reply to my questions, she told me that 
her name was Maggie Harris. She had been 
a nursery governess in a family named 
Braithwaite in Camden Town. They lived 
over a sort of fancy shop, from which they 
got their living. She had been with them 
nearly a year. Then things began to be 
missed, both from the house and the shop. 
Suspicion began to fasten on her. She 
herself did not know why. There was an 
assistant in the shop named Turner. This 
man made overtures to her, which she 
resented. One day a number of new goods 
were missing from the shop. While she was 
out with the children her master and mistress 
searched her room ; she felt sure it was at 
Turner's suggestion. The missing articles 
were found in her box. Her employers 
turned her out on to the pavement there 
and then. That wa^six weeks ago. She 
had been trying to find other employment 
ever since, and had failed. 


i 9 i 

Her father, she said, was dead. She had a 
stepmother ; who lived near Wisbech, in Cam- 
bridgeshire, She left her stepmother's house 
because of some dispute over a young man. 
Practically she was without a friend in the 
world , without a penny, and with no pr aspects 
of earning one. So I took her home with me. 

I was at that time in occupation of a flat 
in Sloane Gardens. Fifteen or sixteen days 
had gone by when ; one morning, there was a 
ringing at my front door, arid Miss Marshall 
came rushing into the sitting-room, where I 

" Miss Lee/' she replied, " they have taken 
my mother's pearl necklace." 

" 1 expect/' I said, " you have mislaid the 
necklace You will find it presently, when 
you have searched again/ 5 

" Miss Lee j you don't know what you are 
talking about." Al! at once her tone was 
angry, u Last night I placed it in the 
biscuit-box. I filled it myself with biscuits 
and put the necklace at the bottom* Just 
now, when I went into the dining-room, 
there were the biscuits on the table, the box 


was at work with Maggie Harris. Miss 
Agatha Marshall had the flat immediately 
below mine, She was a rather eccentric 
person , somewhere in the thirties, who, 
although possessed of considerable means, 
found it difficult to induce a servant to stay 
with her. 

"Oh, Miss Lee/ 1 she exclaimed, "there 
have been thieves in my flat, I was alone ; 
they might have cut my throat from ear to 
ear, and no one would have been any the 
wiser ! " 

" Are you quite sure, Miss Marshall , of 
what you say ? " 

was empty! and the necklace was gone ! 
And the worst of it is that something woke 
me in the middle of the night ; I couldn't 
imagine what it was. I lay listening, and I 
suppose before I made up my mind I dropped 
off to sleep again. Perhaps it was just as 
well , because^ had I gone into the dining- 
room and found thieves in the act of robbing 
me ? goodness knows what would have 

I gave one or two directions to Maggie 
Harris and went downstairs with Miss 

Heilhi^EftSI^^Wy|lCoHI6*.f-Jcorrect. The 



pearl necklace did appear to have gone, and 
other things besides. 

The mystery was how the robbery had been 
effected. Presently we had up Wheeler, the 
hall porter, and a policeman who was fetched 
off his beat. Both these persons were of 
opinion that entry had been gained by the 
simple process of unlocking the outer door of 
the lady's flat, while the porter was certain 
that no suspicious character had entered the 
building after the lady herself had returned, 
just before midnight. 

When I went back to my own sitting-room 
I found Maggie Harris still writing. My 
intention was not to keep her in my employ- 
ment, but I felt that a month's rest would 
not do her any harm, and at her request I 
had given her work of my own to do. The 
more I saw of the girl the more I liked her. 

Directly I appeared she said a very singular 

" Wherever I go a robbery immediately 
follows. It's happened again and again. 
I'm not a thief. But it seems I might just as 
well be. You had better have me locked up 
or turned into the street." 

As she looked at me I was struck, not for 
the first time, by the pallor of her cheeks, 
her bloodless lips, and her shining eyes. I 
knew that, while she was not exactly hysteri- 
cal, she was super-sensitive. 

" I take it, Maggie," said I, " that you did 
not steal Miss Marshall's pearl necklace and 
the rest of her belongings ? " 

" I didn't ! I didn't ! Don't you know I 
didn't ? " 

" I never suggested that you did, which 
makes it harder for me to understand why 
you should use such extremely foolish words 
as you did just now." As I saw that words 
were about to drop from the girl's eager lips 
I stopped her. " Please don't let us discuss 
the subject) Maggie. Miss Marshall's losses 
have nothing to do either with you or with 

The mystery of the robbery in Miss 
Marshall's flat remained unsolved. Nothing 
was heard about the articles which she pro- 
fessed to have lost. 

Some ten days after the robbery Wheeler, 
the porter to the flats, stopped me as I was 
entering the lift. 

" Before I take you up, Miss Lee, if you 
don't mind, there are one or two things which 
1 should like to say to you." 

" What is it, Wheeler ? " I asked. 

" I was thirty-two last week, Miss Lee," 
he began, with rather unexpected candour. 
" My mother died more than twelve months 

ago, and left me quite a tidy bit of money. 
I'm going to set up in business on my own 
account, but before doing so I want a wife, 
someone who can look after the house and 
the accounts while I look after the customers 
and the shop, and, with your permission, 
Miss Lee, I was thinking of Miss Harris." 

I was a little startled as well as amused. 
He was a big, strong-looking fellow, with an 
honest face and nice manners. 

" Does this mean that you have spoken 
to Miss Harris, Wheeler ? " 

" In a manner of speaking, Miss Lee, I 
have, and also I haven't. * She won't listen 
to me because of a hulking chap with whom 
she has got herself mixed up, and who, I am 
dead sure, means her no manner of good." 

" This is news to me, Wheeler. I wasn't 
aware that she had any masculine friends in 

" She's got two, Miss Lee. She's frightened 
out of her life at the sight of one, and she 
ought to be at the sight of the other." 

" Are you sure of what you say ? How 
did you find out these things ? " 

" One afternoon Miss Harris came running 
in here as if for dear life. She ran up the 
steps without waiting for the lift, and she 
cried out : ' Don't you let him touch m£ ! ' 
The very next moment a fair-haired, thin- 
nish, shabby chap appeared in the doorway. 
' Here,' I said, * you can't come in here ! 
What do you want ? ' His eyes went all 
over me. I didn't fancy his looks at all. 
' Does the young lady who just came in live 
here ? ' he asked. * What young lady ? ' I 
said. ' You take yourself off. It's not my 
business to answer questions asked by chaps 
like you. If you've got anything to ask, you 
take yourself to the office and ask it there.' 

" Three or four days afterwards Miss Harris 
went out, as she generally does of an after- 
noon. I was going out myself. Barr " — 
that was the name of another porter — " was 
taking my place. I stood here talking to 
him with my hat on. I spoke to her as she 
went past ; she paid no more attention to 
me than if I wasn't there. I don't mind 
owning that I followed her. There was 
something about her looks I didn't under- 
stand. She walked down to the corner of 
the Pimlico Road. There she met a tall, 
thin chap, in a long black overcoat and a big, 
soft, black felt hat. A motor landaulette 
was standing by the pavement. He didn't 
speak to her and she didn't speak to him ; 
they just got in and the thing went off. She 
came back abcut six o'clock, looking white 
and ill, and I could see that she'd been 



crying* ( I hope there's nothing wrong/ I 
said. She looked at me for a moment or 
two, as if she couldn't make out who was 
speaking to her, and then she said > * Every- 
thing's wrong — everything. I wish Td never 
been born.' 

Wheeler paused for a second or two ? and 
when he continued his tone was almost oddly 

" I've reason to believe, Miss Lee, that she's 
been to meet 
that chap twice 
since then^and 
each time she's 
come back in 
the same con- 
dition. My 
feelings about 
her being what 
they are, I 
thought the 
best thing 1 
could do would 
be to speak to 
you* I've got 
a feeling for 
her abou t 
which I don't 
care to say 
more than I 
can help. Pm 
convinced she's 
the very wife 
I want, and 
I'd make her 
a good hus- 
band j if, Miss 
L e e , you 
wouldn't mind 
speaking a 
word to her." 

I liked the 
man ; I liked 
the girl. I 
felt that they 
might not 
make at all a 
bad pair. The first chance I had I hinted 
as much to the girh Instead of improving 
in health as I had expected s she seemed to me 
to be wasting away. She seemed always to 
be listening ; it gave one an uncanny feeling 
to watch her. 

One day , while she sat typing some paper s, 
I noticed that absorbed look upon her face 
which I had come to know so well, 

" What are you trying to hear ? " I asked 
her, with a smile. 

She looked round at me with startled eyes. 

Vol, xta— 21. 

" I can't think what it is," she said- " Do 
you know, Pm always catching myself try- 
ing to listen to something — sometimes in the 
middle of the night— and I always wonder 
what it is," 

I changed the subject by saying :— 
" Do you know what I think* you want ? 
A husband/' 

u What do you mean ? " she asked. 
M Has Mr, Wheeler never spoken to you, 

or dropped a 

She was silent. 
Presently she 
leaned over the 
typewriter and 
covered her face 
with her hands. 
Then she stood up 
and turned to me 
a face on which 
ther^ was a mys- 
terious something 
which was beyond 
my comprehension. 
t( You had better 
kill me — than talk 
to me like that." 

She scarcely spoke 
above a whisper ; 
then she left the 
room. The young 
woman mystified 
me, gave me 
curious ideas. 
1 had heard of 
dual personali- 
ties ; I was 
beginning to 
wonder if hers 
was such a 

The follow- 
ing morning I 
was walking 
up Sloane 
Street when 
I saw in front of me a figure which I 
recognized as that of the man who, by 
accosting Maggie Harris in the Embankment 
Gardens, had first brought her to my notice. 
I thought of Wheeler's story of the fair- 
haired man from whom the girl had fled 
as for her life, I decided that I would see 
where this gentleman was going. 

When he reached the top of the street he 
entered a restaurant. I unhesitatingly went 
in after him. He had gone right down the 

room ^itf^E^"WR c fr.reiffiwr'r ho ** at a 

WHAT no YOU WANT? 1 " 



small table which stood in a sort of alcove. 
Looking round, I perceived that another 
small table stood in such a position that, if 
I occupied a chair at it, I could get a good 
view of their faces. 

The person I had followed was the man of 
the Embankment Gardens ; I had only to 
get one glimpse of his face to be sure of that. 
But he was in better fettle than on that 
first occasion. As regards his companion, 
he recalled Wheeler's description of the man 
who had met Maggie Harris at the corner of 
the Pimlico Road. He was, if anything, a 
more unpleasant - looking person than the 
other. He was very dark, with a long, thin 
face, high cheek-bones, thin lips, and a pair 
of the most unpleasant eyes I have ever seen 
in a human head. 

Their conversation was carried on, for the 
most part, in whispers ; but they both had 
those peculiar mobile lips the movements of 
which are like printed pages to eyes like mine. 

The dark man began by asking a question. 

" Any news ? " 

" The best. It will have to be Saturday." 

" Why ? Any particular reason ? " 

" A very particular and excellent reason." 
The fair man leaned over the table so that his 
lips were closer to the other. " On Friday 
afternoon he brings home a parcel of diamonds, 
a bag full of money, and quite a number of 
other pretty things. The diamonds, the 
money, and the other pretty things are going 
to be put in the nice little safe which is let 
into the wall. There they will remain in 
quiet and safe seclusion while our Mr. Albert 
Montagu and his dear little wife run down to 
Brighton for the week-end. So now you see, 
my dear Professor Argus, why it will have to 
be Saturday — and that's where you come in. 
I suppose you will be able to come in ? " 

The dark man's features were contorted 
by a smile which did not appeal to me at all. 

" I have her under my finger as I have that 
crumb ; I can do with her as I please." 

" You're a remarkable man, Professor," 
the fair man observed ; " but — this is a 
pretty remarkable thing you're proposing to 

4 ' Is it any more remarkable than the other 
things ? There was a certain pearl necklace. 
Wasn't it pretty remarkable how it came into 
our possession, without either of us moving a 
finger or incriminating ourselves in any way ? " 

" I dare say. But it does seem as if there 
were going to be unusual features about this 
little job. She's got to enter the place with 
a pass-key ; she's also got to open a compli- 
cated safe with a very delicate and ingenious 

little instrument. That would take some 
doing if she were wide awake ; in the state in 
which she will be it will be dashed difficult. 
I can't help thinking that nothing could be 
easier than for her to make a little mistake, 
and the slightest slip, from our point of view, 
would be fatal, because if she spoilt our tool 
— which she probably would do — she'd be 
done, and, what would be worse, so should 

" You say you know the safe ? " 

" I do. At least, so far as the lock's 
concerned, I've got its double ; it cost a 
pretty penny." 

" Good ! And you've got the key which 
will open it ? " 

" I have ; you saw it yourself — both the 
lock and the key." 

" And you saw her rehearse ; you saw her 
take that key into her hand and open that lock 
without my saying a word ? " 

" I did ; it was a wonderful performance. 
You are a wonderful chap, Professor." 

" Then why do you worry ? I've got that 
girl, body and soul. You may take it from 
me that if you've got your part of the business 
right, that little matter will come off on 

" Professor, you really are a marvel — 
here's to you, my boy. It was a stroke of 
luck my getting on her track again ; and her 
having found such a comfortable home with 
our dear, tender-hearted, charitable Miss 
Judith Lee." 

As I sat there following the conversation 
of those two scamps the whole diabolical 
conspiracy was plain to me before they had 
finished. They went first. I remained after 
they had gone, doing my best to decide on 
what would be the proper course to pursue. 
At last I came to the conclusion that the 
wisest thing for me to do would be to go to 
Dr. Riderman — so I went. 

On the way I stopped at a public telephone 
call-office, rang up Scotland Yard, and 
requested Inspector Ellis to meet me at Dr. 
Riderman's residence in Harley Street in the 
shortest possible space of time. 

Horace Riderman is not only a great 
surgeon ; he is also one of the leading autho- 
rities on certain psychological aspects of 
disease. Shortly after reaching Dr. Rider- 
man's house Inspector Ellis was ushered in. 
I introduced them. 

" Inspector Ellis — Dr. Riderman. I wish 
to tell you gentlemen a little story, and then 
to ask your advice — probably, also, your 

I told them the story of my first meeting 



with Maggie Harris, and of the man from 
whom she had fled ; of the account she had 
given me of herself ; of how I had taken her 
to my home, and of what had followed. 
When I came to the robbery of Miss Marshall's 
pearl necklace Inspector Ellis interposed. 

" It didn't come actually into my hands, 
but I remember hearing of that. I believe 
that, so far, the thief has not been found, nor 
the pearls either." 

I said that was so. Then I described the 
effect the robbery had had upon Maggie 

" Dr. Riderman," I continued, " the girl 
has been hypnotized. She's a hypnotic 
subject. That, to my mind, explains every- 

" If that is the case, Miss Lee, I can only 
ask for details." 

Then I told of the interview which I had 
just witnessed in the restaurant, and of the 
conversation whfch followed. 

" You remember that the girl told me that 
she had left her stepmother's house because 
of a dispute she had had over a young man. 
My theory is that the man who caused trouble 
with her stepmother, the man who met her 
in the Pimlico Road, and the Professor Argus, 
to whom I have just been introduced in the 
restaurant, are one and the same person. He 
probably found out quite early the power he 
had over her. That power has grown with 
the years, her capacity of resistance being so 
slight, until now, as I just now saw him say, 
he can do as he likes with her. This is a case, 
doctor, of hypnosis by suggestion." 

" Is that sort of thing really possible ? " 
asked the inspector. 

I waved my hand towards the surgeon. 
"Ask Dr. Riderman.". 

" It's certainly possible ; indeed, it is not 
easy, in the light of our present information, 
to say what in such cases is impossible. How 
far do your theories intend to go, Miss Lee ? 
Are you asking us to believe that, at the 
suggestion of this man, Professor Argus, she 
took Miss Marshall's pearls ? " 

" I make no positive assertion. I'm 
merely here to tell you of a conversation which 
has just taken place. The man Turner 
spoke of persons named Montagu. Now, on 
the first floor in my block of flats there is a 
Mr. Montagu, and he has a wife. He is a 
diamond merchant in Hatton Garden. It 
is his habit to bring home parcels of diamonds. 
He once told me that a parcel he had in his 
hand was worth nearly fifteen thousand 
pounds. When I asked what he did, in his 
flat, to ensure the safety of such valuable 

property he replied that there was a little 
hiding-place close to his hand where it would 
be as safe as in the Bank of England. That 
suggests the safe of which the man Turner 
spoke, and the instrument in the nature of a 
key with which the girl is to open it." 

" Do you mean to say," struck in the 
inspector, " that a girl in the condition in 
which, according to you, Miss Harris is to 
be, could, with any instrument whatever, 
open so complicated a piece of mechanism 
as the lock of a really good burglar-proof 
safe ? " 

" That, again, is a point on which I prefer 
to say nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Albert Montagu 
are in the habit of going away for the week- 
end. If it is the intention of those two 
ingenious gentlemen that, while in a state of 
hypnosis, Maggie Harris is to make a bur- 
glarious entrance into their flat, nothing is 
easier than that you, and the doctor here, 
and I should be there to see. We need not 
interfere — we can just stand and watch. 
Afterwards, when she hands over to the arch- 
villain the plunder which he has made her 
take — that will be the moment for us to 
move. What is your opinion, Dr. Rider- 
man ? " 

" I think, in the first place, it's a very 
remarkable story, Miss Lee. Dr. Milne 
Bramwell tells us of a woman who, being told 
while in a state of hypnosis to do a certain 
thing at a certain hour in a certain way, 
several days afterwards, being released from 
her hypnotic trance, did that exact thing, at 
the exact moment, exactly as required, with- 
out being conscious that such a suggestion 
had ever been made. I have seen that sort 
of thing myself more than once. I think 
your notion, Miss Lee, that we should be on 
the spot to see if she really does is not at all 
a bad one." 

And we were there, all three of us — and 
another, making four. The fourth person 
was Edward Wheeler ; in my scheme he was 

"I'll be there — you may depend on me, 
Miss Lee." 

On the Friday afternoon Mr. and Mrs. 
Montagu got into a cab and were driven away. 
Wheeler had been informed that the servants 
had been given a week-end holiday, and 
that the flat was to be shut up. So far 
the man Turner's forecast of their movements 
had proved correct. 

During the early part of the Saturday I 
noticed that Maggie Harris seemed to be in 
an acutely sensitive frame of mind. Towards 
evening she grew restless. She kept giving 



what seemed to be involuntary movements, 
as if suffering from a sense of physical dis- 
comfort. Soon after ten o'clock she went to 
bed ; ten minutes afterwards I went to the 
telephone and rang up Dr. Riderman. In 
less than half an hour he appeared with 
Inspector Ellis. 

We three sat in my room waiting and 
watching. At one o'clock Wheeler came 
upstairs and joined us. 

" Is everyone in ? " I asked. He replied 
in the affirmative. 

It was just past two o'clock before anything 
happened. We were in my sitting-room ; 
the door was open ; Dr. Riderman said that 
if the girl were really in a state of hypnosis 
she would not notice such a trifle as the fact 
that my sitting-room lights were shining out 
into the passage. All at once the doctor 
held up a forefinger. 

" A handle is being turned. Which is her 
room ? " 

" It's the next but one to this." I listened. 
In the utter silence a faint sound was just 
perceptible. Soft footsteps came along the 
passage, then a figure passed my door. 

" It's she," I whispered ; " and I believe 
she's dressed." 

" Why shouldn't she be ? " observed the 
doctor. " Do you think he'd be such a fool 
as to let her walk about the place in her night- 
dress ? " 

Someone had gone along the passage and 
opened my front door. We all rose. 

" Now, recollect what I tell you," said the 
doctor. " If I think it safe to speak I'll let 
you know ; till I do, be as still as ybu can. 
If he has her well in hand there'll be no risk 
of our being seen ; so far as we are concerned 
she will be stone-blind." 

When we got out on to the landing she 
was moving softly down the stone stair- 

" Do you mean to say," whispered the 
inspector, " that she doesn't know what 
she's about ? She moves as if she were in 
possession of all her senses." 

" Wait a bit," replied the doctor, " and 
you'll see." 

He spoke louder than the inspector. At 
that moment the girl, pausing, put the fingers 
of her left hand up to her cheek and seemed 
to listen. 

" She heard you," whispered the inspector. 

" She didn't ; she may have received a 
suggestion from someone who is at goodness 
knows what distance from this ; she never 
heard me. I'll prove it to you presently. 
Unless I'm mistaken, this is the most remark- 

able case of hypnosis by suggestion that I've 
ever witnessed." 

Maggie Harris descended those four flights 
of stone steps, holding herself very upright, 
well in the centre, with as much assurance — 
in Inspector Ellis's words — as if she had been 
in possession of all her senses. When she 
reached the first-floor landing, pausing in 
front of Mr. Montagu's flat, taking a key out 
of the bosom of her frock, with it she opened 
the door, as steadily and surely as if she had 
been wide awake. We had followed her — a 
curious quartet — from step to step, without 
her once looking round. 

" Where did she get that key from ? " 
inquired Wheeler, as the Montagus' door 
yielded to her touch. " There are only two 
other keys which fit that lock besides Mr. 
Montagu's : one I've got, and the other is in 
the office." 

" That's a master-key which she has," 
murmured Ellis. " The man who is handling 
her is an artist. He's seen that she's provided 
with proper tools, and nothing's easier, if you 
know how to set about it, than to provide 
oneself with a master-key which will open 
every door in a block of London flats." 

Dr. Riderman had hurried through the 
open door, and I was at his heels. Behind 
me was Inspector Ellis, with Wheeler in the 
rear. One thing we noticed at once : the 
girl had not switched on the light. 

" That shows the state she's in — light and 
darkness are the same to her." 

As he said this the doctor himself switched 
on the light. There she was, threading her 
way among the tables and chairs as if she 
could see them perfectly well — yet she did 
not give the slightest sign that she was con- 
scious of the amazing change which had taken 
place when the doctor touched that electric 

Maggie Harris passed from the sitting- 
room to the bedroom. Some little time 
before Mrs. Montagu had been ill in bed. I 
had visited her on several occasions, but 
had seen nothing to suggest that a safe was 
in the room. Yet the girl, who, I should 
certainly say, had never been there before, 
went straight to it. There were twin beds 
in the room ; the wall between them was 
covered with hangings. Maggie drew one 
of these aside, touched a spring, and a hinged 
panel flew back ; behind was a small safe 
painted green. She did something to the 
lock, very much as a blind person feels for 
the Braille type with the tips of the fingers, 
then she irwErtEci something into the key- 
hole, went through sorxe further mysterious 



performance:; with the tips of her fingers, 
turned with the greatest of ease the some- 
thing which she had put into the lock, and 
the safe was open- Within was a small 
black leather bag — we were within a few 
feet of her and could see it plainly. She 
opened it, took out a little paper par eel , a 
canvas bag, and a packet of papers ; shut it, 
closed the door of the safe, returned the 
hinged panel ; then, wheeling round, moved 

certainly unlocked for. Inspector Ellis ? for 
one, was visibly disconcerted, 

"After all/ 5 ' he cried, " the whole thing 
may be a trap. What fools we shall look ! 
If she's locked it from the outside she may 
be clear away with her spoils before we can 
get out." 

" Yes 1 but as it happens it isn't locked 
on the outside," observed Wheeler. He 
showed it by pressing back the latch, and the 
door was wide open. 


straight towards us. She came so close to 
me that I had to draw back to prevent actual 
contact. Her head was erect, her eyes open, 
but the pupils were fixed. I had seen hypno- 
tized persons before that night ; I recognized 
that I was looking at one then* We held our 
breath and she went by, though if we had 
made a noise it would have made no difference. 
Dr. Riderman proved it by exclaiming, 
just as she was passing into the sitting- 
room ; — 

" Young lady ! Miss Harris ! " 

Obviously unaware that a sound had been 
uttered, she continued her progress across 
the sitting-room , passed through the hall 
door, and shut it in our faces. That was 

Ellis was first on the landing, but we were 
soon after him. There was the girt, two 
flights above us. We re-entered my flat, the 
girl in front, we four behind. 

11 Now, what's to be done ? " asked Ellis. 
" That piece of sugar- paper she's carrying is 
a parcel of diamonds. As your friend said, 
Miss Lee, there may be fifteen thousand 
pounds' worth. There's money in that 
canvas bag which she's got in her left hand ; 
by the look of it, quite a decent sum. Those 
papers she's carrying may be valuable 
securities. Hadn't we at once better make 
sure that they're safe ? " 

" If by that you mean," I replied, " that 
yoitlfl I liEft^ltW ©|t*/ia*H<S Attom her, I will 



remind you that what we want to do is to 
make sure of the scoundrel who has engineered 
all this. The only way to do that is to catch 
him with that stolen property in his possession. 
We want to establish her innocence, to make 
it clear that she's the helpless victim of a 
nefarious plot, and, what is not least, remove 
her from his influence." 

" All I want to do is to make sure that the 
valuables are safeguarded," said the inspector. 

" I'll make sure of that," I told him. " I 
promise you that nothing which she has taken 
from Mr. Montagu's flat shall pass out of 
mine without your knowledge. If you like, 
you might leave a man here to keep an eye 
on things ; I don't think it would be a bad 
idea if you did. But you've only seen the 
first act of the drama. Be here in good time 
to-morrow, and I fancy you'll see the second 
act — and the end. What you'll have to do 
will be to arrest Professor Argus and his 
confederate, the man Turner." 

The next day was Sunday. Maggie Harris 
rose at the usual hour; she seemed tired 
and depressed, as if her night's rest had 
done her little good. At half-past ten she 
started out to church ; so far as I was con- 
cerned, her Sundays were her own. While 
she was getting ready I opened her bedroom 
door to ask her a question. As I did so I was 
struck by the oddity of her manner. I spoke 
to her twice without her seeming to take any 
notice of what I said. 

I put on my hat and gloves, sent a message 
over the telephone, and waited for her to go 
out. When I heard her bedroom door open 
I went out into the passage. She walked 
right past me without seeming to take any 
heed of my presence. She had a prayer-book 
in one hand and a green leather hand-bag 
in the other. I jumped to a conclusion. 

" Mr. Montagu's property is in that bag. 
She's going to meet that — that creature." 

I followed her down the staircase. Dr. 
Riderman and Wheeler were in the hall, the 
latter in mufti. Both of them took off their 
hats to salute her as she appeared, an atten- 
tion on their part which she utterly ignored. 
We all three followed her as she went out 
into the street. Inspector Ellis, in plain 
clothes, was on the other side of the road. 
Without crossing to us, he moved in the 
direction in which she was going. 

" You'll find she's going to the corner of 
the Pimlico Road," said Wheeler to me. 
" I believe that's where she always does go ; 
that's where he always meets her. If I could 
only get within comfortable reach of him " 

He stopped— in time. His agitation was 

obvious. Dr. Riderman deemed it necessary 
to address to Wheeler a warning word. 

" Don't you let yourself go ; control 
yourself, my lad. You leave the conduct of 
this business to others." 

We were nearing the end of Lower Sloane 
Street when Inspector Ellis motioned to us 
from his side of the road. We stopped short, 
letting the girl go on. The inspector, on his 
side of the road, strolled carelessly on. 
Crossing the street, the girl disappeared round 
the corner. The inspector vanished too. In 
another moment the inspector reappeared ; 
when he beckoned to us we moved forward. 
A taxi-cab was standing by the kerb. The 
inspector explained. 

" She's in that motor-car with the Pro- 
fessor, as you say he calls himself." We 
could see that a closed car was moving 
rapidly. " In you get ; this cab's mine." 

We got in ; the cab started. The inspector 
continued to explain. 

" Some of our men are shadowing our 
friend in front. I don't propose to take him 

The cab ran over Ebury Bridge into War- 
wick Street, turning into what I afterwards 
learnt was Alderney Street, then suddenly 
stopped. We were on the pavement in an 

" There's that other motor going off in 
front," observed the driver. " It's put the 
pair down. There is the girl turning into 
Sussex Street. She don't seem well. The 
man has gone into the house four doors from 
this ; I fancy the door must have been kept 
open for him — he slipped in so fast." 

Four men were coming towards us down the 

" There are my chaps," said Ellis. " What 
we've got to do is to get into that house before 
the Professor gets out of it — perhaps by a 
back door. For the moment we'll leave the 
girl to herself." 

This did not appeal to Wheeler at all, for 
he made a rapid movement towards the 
street into which the girl had turned. We 
approached the house of which the driver 
had spoken. 

Inspector Ellis had in his hand a key, which 
he inserted into the keyhole, and which opened 
the door as easily as if it had been made for 
it. An elderly woman was in the hall. 

" Who are you ? " she asked. " What 
do you want ? What do you mean by 
coming into my house without knocking ? " 

There came a sound from somewhere above, 
as if a heavy piece of furniture had fallen. 
Thrusting the woman aside, the inspector 



Tan up the stairs with us at his heels. There 
were two doors on the first landing, which he 
threw wide open ; then, turning, sprang up 
three more stairs which were on the left, to a 
door beyond* He turned the handle — then 
exclaimed : — 

" The door's locked. He's in here, Pank- 
hurstj drive this door open," 

A greatj big man., one of the four who had 
met us outside, went rushing forward, and 


by the mere force of his impetus carried the 
door away as if it were so much matchwood. 
In another second we were all of us swarming 
into the room. Then I heard someone 
shout :— 

" Look out ! He's going to jump through 
the window." 

Just as 1 entered the man whom I had 
heard addressed as Professor Argus jumped, 
before anyone could stop him. There was 
an old-fashioned French window leading on 
to a little balcony ; it was open when I got 

into the room* I saw a tall figure pass through 
it ^ then vanish* One of the inspectors men, 
running on to the balcony, looked over the 
low railing. 

" He must have struck the spikes of the 

railings and fallen on the wrong side to the 

bottom of the area* He's lying all of a heap/ 1 

Inspector Ellis's voice, as he replied to this 

information j was cold and official. 

'* Two of you men go down and look after 

him." He turned to someone 

else who was in the room- " You 

are my prisoner ; if you are a 

wise man you won't make any 


The man addressed did not 
look as though he were likely to 
make what the inspector called 
a fuss — it was Turner, from 
whom Maggie Harris had fled in 
the Embankment Gardens, and 
whom I had seen concocting his 
hideous plot in 
the restaurant. 
His confederate 
was dead, the arch- 
criminal. Whether 
his intention was 
to commit suicide^ 
or merely to 
make a wild 
effort to escape 
from the police^ 
was not clear. In 
his pockets were 
that whitey-brown 
paper parcel 
which we had 
seen Maggie 
Harris take out 
of Mr, Montagu's 
safe , and which 
contained a large 
number of uncut 
diamonds; the 
canvas bag, in 
which there were 
nearly a hundred pounds in gold, besides 
bank-notes; and the bundle of papers. 
The two keys — the master-key with which 
the girl had opened the outer door^ and the 
ingenious instrument with which she had 
manipulated the lock of the safe — were 
actually found in Turner's hands. 

When I returned to Sloane Gardens I 
found Maggie Harris in my sitting-room 
crying as if her heart would break ; and by 
her side, doing his best to offer her consolation, 
was the hall gorter, 



And the Strokes That MaJe It. 


[The photograph* accomt>an7ing the lex* comdtute the unique feature of these article*. Each stroke wa* 
set up on his own standard tabic by Mr. John Roberts personally, and. the lines of white worsted illustrating 
the nin of the balls — of ivory, standard size and equal weight — were placed in position by him. The 
spot on the cue-ball shows the exact place where that ball must be struck to make the stroke depicted, 
and the line running From the cue- ball to the object- ball shows the line of aim for the stroke,] 



EFORE proceeding to deal 
with the strokes shown in the 
remarkable photographs illus- 
trating this article, I deem it 
necessary to say something 
about the general principles 
of cuemanship. My views on 
this subject are decidedly broad* I have no 
sympathy with 
those professors 
who desire to cast 
cuemen all in one 
mould* The right 
thing to do is for 
each man to 
adapt his own 
physical attri- 
butes to certain 
general prin- 
ciples* The legs 
should be planted 
firmly yet grace- 
fully, with the 
right leg straight 
and the left leg 
advanced just far 
enough and the 
left knee just 
bent enough to 
enable a player 
to get down to 
his game without 
the least strain or 
effort. I am no 

believer in poses which make people look like 
racing cyclists when shaping for a stroke at 
billiards. It is decidedly a contentious matter 
whether anything is gained in accuracy by a 
crouching stance, and the loss of grace and 
comfort is obvious and undeniable. 

Next comes the all-important pfacing of the 
left hand on the table. This must be done 
properly, and the photograph (No* i) of my 
bridge hand shows the right way to do It. The 
* ( bridge " thus formed is firm, but there is 
nothing of the tense rigidity about it advocated 
by those who would fain make a billiard- 
player daw at the cloth to keep the left hand 
steady. To my mind, there is nothing stiff 
about billiards, nothing laboured and heavy. 

My ideal billiard- 
player faces his 
work with every 
muscle elastic and 
ready to respond 
to his will. His 
poise is full of 
the elegance of 
latent power, and 
is at the same 
time steadiness 
personified. The 
least tendency to 
wobble is fatal, 
and the player 
must remember 
not to wriggle the 
upper part of his 
body in the at- 
tempt to re-sight 
a shot. He must 
move his feet 
first, and thus 
get the founda- 
tion right before 
settling him- 
self down afresh to his stroke. 

Next comes the matter of holding a cue 
correctly. Much has been written on this 
subject. Some experts advise budding cue- 
men to hold the cue between the thumb and 

fore ftfl?ffl$ft ^tferf he "* of tw0 




fingers and the thumb, while some commend 
making a sort of loop with all the fingers and 
the thumb, and allowing the cue to rest at 
will on the most convenient portion of this 
loop, which will invariably be towards the 
front of it. My advice is to decide on 
whichever of these methods comes most 
natural and easy ; but when a decision is 
made, do not vary it. Chopping and changing 
in matters of stance, making a bridge, and 
holding a cue has spoilt more billiard-players 
than enough. Men see a great player manipu- 
late a cue in his own way, and try to copy him. 
They always fail, because what they strive to 
imitate is only some superficial and personal 
trick of cuemanship peculiar to the master 
they are copying. The general underlying 
principle, the one thing that matters, is always 
missed by the untrained observer. And as 
regards holding a cue, that principle is summed 
up in the one word " lightness " — I might 
almost have written " daintiness. " A man 
who takes a billiard-cue in hand is holding 
an implement capable of as much variety of 
execution as a bow in the hands of a skilled 
violinist, and anything hard and constrained 
is utterly antagonistic to the artistic soul of 
the thing. The cue should never be gripped 
when shaping for a stroke or when it is swung 
for a stroke. There are; occasions when an 
instantaneous gripping of the cue is necessary 
at the right moment, and I will deal with 
these occasions in their proper place. 

A correct holding of the cue is inseparable 
from that smooth and accurate cue delivery 
which is the underlying and unvarying first 
principle of all billiards. Every great billiard- 
player, without exception, no matter what 
his individual eccentricities of stance or action 
may be, always delivers his cue with irre- 
proachable freedom and accuracy. In other 
words, at that infinitesimal fraction of time 
when the cue-tip comes into contact with a 
billiard-ball all great billiardists are absolutely 
alike. Temperament, nerves, judgment, and 
natural aptitude for the game account for 
the differences between them. One and all 
strike a billiard-ball perfectly, or they would 
never play well enough for anyone to pay 
sixpence to see them perform. Cue delivery 
is to the billiard-player what timing a ball is 
to a cricketer, timing a blow to a boxer, or 
timing a kick to a footballer. Doing it 
rightly or wrongly makes all the difference 
between the waste and use of energy, between 
a dull, lifeless result and an achievement 
aglow with brilliance and vitality. 

Hold the cue lightly, then, swing it straight 
from the elbow, and let it run on with a 

VoLxlv.-22. Ur 9 l 

smooth, even, flowing action until, at the 
instant it reaches its nearest approach to the 
horizontal, the tip strikes the cue-ball on the 
desired spot. Then let the cue go through 
the ball, except for screw strokes — and even 
for these it must get well hold of the sphere. 
Do not hold the cue more or less as if it were 
a broom-handle and push or poke it at the 
ball. Throwing the cue at the ball is much 
nearer the right thing to do. In fact, it is 
possible, as an exhibition effort only, to 
discard the use of the thumb of the right hand, 
rest the cue-butt on the fingers only, and make 
stroke after stroke by the sheer momentum 
of the cue. This is not to be practised, not 
even for a single stroke ; I have only quoted 
it to show what can be done by permitting 
the weight and swing of the cue to have full 
and unrestricted play to the uttermost extent. 
This swing, which comes from the elbow in 
all except the few hard-hitting strokes which 
make a call on the swing of the whole of the 
cue-arm from the shoulder, is the one indis- 
pensable primary essential for billiard-playing. 
A lucky few have it as a natural gift, but the 
vast majority must acquire it by study and 

They must persevere until they can bring 
the cue-tip into contact with a ball without 
the least trace of heaviness due to gripping 
the butt, of a see-sawing up-and-down 
movement, or of a sideways waggle. Not 
until then will they begin to play billiards 
with any h6pe of practice making perfect. 
If their cue delivery is wrong, the more they 
play the worse they will play after reaching 
that extremely limited degree of proficiency 
which enables them to make, at uncertain 
intervals, a few strokes in their own way 
and many flukes — also in their own way. 
Given a correct cue delivery, the next point 
is to align the cue with due regard both to the 
spot on the cue-ball it is desired to strike 
and the point of contact between the cue-ball 
and its object. The whole business then 
becomes a mechanical certainty, so mechanical 
that even sight can be dispensed with. 

A favourite exhibition trick of my father's 
took the form of sighting a stroke, swinging 
his cue back, and then turning his head and 
looking away from the balls when actually 
making the score. Again I do not advise my 
readers to experiment for an instant with such 
a dangerous departure from the orthodox in the 
hands of anybody except a past-master of the 
game who took trouble enough to acquire the 
knack. But how well the thing shows just what 
accurate cue delivery really means ! If the 
cue hand and aim of my father had not been 





trained to an extent which enabled him to 
deliver his cue with mechanical precision, his 
trick of playing a stroke for pure sport 
without looking at the balls at the instant of 
cue contact would have been a dead failure. 
As it was } he seldom missed a stroke he chose 
to play in this way T and his prowess in this 
direction, although it may have erred on the 
side of the whimsical s according to modern 
ideas on the seriousness of sport, was never- 
theless an indisputable exhibition of what can 
be left with perfect safety to cue delivery 
of the highest order. The strenuous struggles 
of so many " hundred -uppers " to make a 
twenty break once in a way show what cannot 
be done almost entirely on account of cue 
delivery as full of faults as it very well can be. 
It is a capital idea to practise cue delivery 
by swinging the cue over a straight line on 
the table without putting 
up a ball to distract the 
attention. lake pains 
with this. Settle down 
comfortably into the 
stance you have decided 
to adopt — it would be 
w T ell to have it criticized 
by a good player, if pos- 
sible. Then swing the cue 
hark war* Is and forwards 
over the bridge hand, 
and keep striking at a 
ball which exists only in 
fancy, The number of 
little preliminary swings 
made before delivering the cue is a matter 
each player must decide for himself, but 
the fewer the better, as the practice tends 
to tire the hand and eye by a series of 
movements which precede the actual 
stroke. Some players, including myself, 
can make strokes by simply drawing the cue 
back and delivering it without more ado, 
But there are others, especially beginners, 
who will find a few preliminary swings helpful, 
ns they enable the stroke to be rehearsed, 
so to speak, before the cue is brought into 
contact with the ball. When practice gives 
confidence, these little cue movements should 
be discarded as far as possible. They con- 
stitute something a billiard-player has first 
to learn and then forget as his game advances, 
Keep the body perfectly still when practising 
these cue exercises. Only the right arm should 
move ; the right hand should be kept as close 
to the side of the body as possible, and the 
cue should be delivered over and over again 
on a line directly beneath the centre of the 
chin of the cueman. The player can see for 


himself whether the cue is kept straight over 
the line, and it is a good plan to have a candid 
friend standing by his side to note the least 
jcrkiness or lack of freedom, and also to find 
fault if the cue is not as level as it can be 
when the tip is supposed to come in contact 
with that imaginary ball. 

I have now finished my opening remarks on 
the art of cuemanship. They must be read 
carefully and mastered in practice before any 
strokes are attempted 5 or I cannot be respon- 
sible for the result. My strokes may fairly 
be likened to a number of targets^ and cueman- 
ship alone is the rifle which enables the 
bull's-eye to be hit every time. The illus- 
tration is by no means far-fetched, and I 
trust it will serve to bring home to the minds 
of every reader the vital importance of an 
accomplishment so often neglected with dire 
results. One-ball practice 
should follow the cue 
exercises. Place the spot- 
ball so that the black dot 
on the sphere is exactly 
in its centre, Deliver the 
cue on that spot, and 
play the ball from baulk 
straight up the centre of 
the table. Stick to it 
until the ball returns at a 
variety of strengths direct 
over the line of spots 
which marks the middle 
of the table. This cannot 
be done in ten minutes. It 
demands a fair amount of practice with set 
purpose^ but it must be mastered, as central 
striking of the cue-ball, in conjunction with a 
half-ball contact with the object-ball, gives 
us our known quantity in billiards from which 
is computed every other stroke in the game. 
Our second photograph illustrates a familiar 
half- ball losing hazard. Note where the white 
line ends exactly on the outside edge of the red 
ball j and see the spot in the middle of the 
cue-ball. Bring the cue to bear on that spot, 
and make the centre of the white ball travel 
straight and true towards the outside edge of 
the object, and the hazard into the opposite top 
pocket is sure to be made. The actual contact 
of the balls is shown in our next illustration 
(No. 3), and it should be noted carefully 
that this stroke ought invariably to be played 
with just sufficient strength to bring the red 
ball into position for a losing hazard from hand 
into the middle pocket on the opposite side 
of the table to the player, Such positional 
control of the red ball is not verv difficult to 

^TOv'EMMfrar sirokes vvhKh 



an ordinary amateur may be reasonably 
expected to handle in every respect as well as 
sl professional; and as, with slight variations, 
it is constantly occurring in actual play, it is 
most decidedly a stroke which should be 
practised assiduously from 
each side of the table until 
both the hazard and cor- 
rect after - position are 
thoroughly mastered. 

Our next illustration (No. 4) 
is of exceptional interest, as it 
depicts the permissible mar- 
gin of error in the half-ball 
stroke. A close inspection 
will prove that the inside 
edge of the white ball is at 
the moment of contact the 
merest shade beyond the 
centre of the red, and it there- 
lore follows that the centre of 
the cue-ball must have been directed just that 
indescribably minute fraction of space away 
from the absolute outside edge of the red and 
towards the centre of that ball. This much, 
and no more, may be done at normal pace 
without affecting the natural angle to any 
appreciable extent in actual billiards, although 
I dare say it is not without its effect in pure 
theory. But in the other direction there is 
no margin of error allowable. If, in general 
billiard parlance, the contact is in the least 
" finer* 5 than a half- 
balb the natural angle 
cannot result, and 

manv amateurs fail 


to make long losers 

from hand simply on 

account of this fault. 

When a true half- ball 

is presented into a 

pocket fairly close to 

the cue-ball t then, 

provided the pocket 

is an open one, a 

slightly finer contact 

than half - ball will 

score, incidentally, 

with a bad stroke. 

But the M long ones " 

supply the real test. 

Those beautiful free 

strokes which bring 

the object-ball round 

off three cushions when played from hand 

off a ball on the centre spot, or very near it, 

cannot be made if a cue-ball without side 

strikes the object too thin; but, I repeat, 

there is a slight margin offered in the other 



direction. Therefore, when playing half- ball 
strokes , always make sure you bring about 
a thick enough contact, whatever you do* 

While I am on the subject of permissible 
errors in the half -hall stroke, I propose to 
deal with another connected, 
not with ball contact, but 
with the point struck on the 
cue -ball. As I have so 
often explained, the natural 
angle resulting from a half- 
ball contact is made by 
striking the cue-ball in its 
centre. But the stroke is 
the same for all practical 
purposes even if the cue-ball 
is struck decidedly above its 
horizontal centre, For some 
half -ball strokes, especially 
when the balls lie close for the 
type of stroke, cue contact 
above the centre of the ball played with is 
useful, as dead central ball-striking may not 
impart enough forward rotation to give full life 
to the stroke, Hut there is always this point 
to be remembered. The strikable surface of 
the cuerball is none too great, and is really 
much less than is often supposed, and as the 
cue-tip approaches nearer and nearer to the 
top of the ball it becomes more and more 
difficult to keep on that vertical centre of the 
s nh ere the least departure from which imparts 

that side or bias which 
ruins plain-ball 

A mental picture 
of a wedge conveys 
my meaning very 
well. The broad base 
of the wedge repre- 
sents the horizontal 
centre of the cue- ball, 
and as it tapers away 
to nothing it shows 
that the dimension 
of the strikable sur- 
face presented to the 
cue-tip dwindles 
rapidly to vanishing 
point. And as it 
dwindles it renders 
the task of bringing 
the cue- point exactly 
on the vertical centre 
of the ball increasingly difficult, and makes the 
probability of imparting unintentional but 
nevertheless fatal side a risk which grows in 
proportion aQ%&!th^ fe'tlile distance the cue- 
ball isll Hf V^EPl&l TO^Me Ml€ HhaeMontai centre. 



The same general argument holds good as 
regards every stroke on a biliiard-table. 
Ignoring flukes, there are always three dis- 
tinct possibilities inseparable from every 
stroke. It may be missed, it may be made 
perfectly, or it may be made in spite of a 
margin of imperfection which varies enor- 
mously in different strokes. The first two 
are fixed quantities, but the third differs 
with every separate grouping of the balls* 
But it always has its distinct and absolute 
limitations, which are usually small, and often 
so minute as to be a negligible quantity in 
practice, The good player takes no liberties 
with the permissible margin of imperfection 
in stroke play ; the bad player leans on it so 
heavily that he would throw up billiards in 
disgust but for its existence. Obviously the 
right thing to do is to play every stroke in 
such a way that the possibility of error 
becomes eliminated by the application of 
known rules, the first and greatest of which 
governs plain- ball striking and the half-ball 
contact which gives us the natural angle 
depicted in our photographs. 

This angle is not always easily recognized 
at first sight, as the two following photo- 
graphs prove. The first (No. 5} shows a typical 
half-ball losing hazard into a corner pocket, 
and the man who has yet to learn his billiards 
— which may easily be true of many who have 
played for years — would hardly credit that it 
is exactly the same shot as that presented by 
our first score off the spotted red. Yet such 
is the fact, and it is harder still to realize in 
the case of the half-ball stroke into a iL blind " 
middle pocket shown in the next photograph 
(No. 6). To obtain the best effect of this 
stroke the page should be held level with 
the eyeSj and adjusted in such a manner that 
the line of vision is directly over the centre 
of the cue -ball, a plan 
which is well worth follow- 
ing in all the pictures^ for 
that matter. And in con- 
nection with this stroke 
it should be borne in mind 
that the white ball is some 
two feet away from the 
red. Even then the angle 
appears deceptive, much 
" wider," as they say in 
billiard-rooms, than it really 
is. This stroke should be 
set up and played with special care, as the 
angle of entry into the pocket is such that 
the least mistake throws the ball out. 
The player cannot see the fraction of an inch 
of pocket opening at the fall of the slate 


over which his ball must pass to effect a score ; 
the pocket is therefore " blind/' and the 
stroke cannot be handled with too much 
nicety* But, all the same, it is a plain-ball 
effort, although I dare say that if twenty 
ordinary ruemen saw me make it during a 
break they would feel positive that 1 had 
employed both screw and left-hand side, 
But I should have done nothing of the sort. 
My eye would have seen through the mis- 
leading appearance of the stroke at a glance ; 
I should have made a plain hazard with every 
confidence regarding the score, my best 
energies being devoted to the strength de- 
manded in directing the red towards the centre 
of the table to leave a losing hazard to follow 
from hand, 

Leaving half- ball contacts, but adhering 
rigidly to central cue contacts, I propose to 
demonstrate by a short series of special 
strokes some idea of the infinite scope and 
capabilities of this simple, yet exquisitely 
beautiful, phase of billiards (Nos. 7 and S}„ 
The first of these strokes is a run-througa 
cannon. It is made by striking the cue-ball 
in the centre and making a nearly full 
contact with the white, which lies tight 
against the cushion. Of course, the stroke 

no. 6. a '* hllmd" pocket. 

can be made by slightly varying the ball 
contact and utilizing side, or both top and 
side together, I know that, but I also 
know that it is far easier to think about 
and| m ^.-fl To ^i fl!CH jf^^d of two or 




NO. 7. A RUN ■ I KkOL'CH 



three ; so, therefore 
why complicate matters 
needlessly, especially as, 
in addition to making 
the score, there is the 
essential after-position to 
manipulate ? This stroke, 
played as described. 
affords a splendid test of 
euemanship. The cue 
must be swung well and 
truly to make this stroke. 

We now pass to a plain-ball stroke which 
offers the greatest possible contrast to the 
follow-through shot just dealt with, The 
photograph (No. 9), I should like to explain, 
shows the finest effective contact it is possible 
to make intentionally with a billiard-hall, 
and when a stroke of the 
type has to be played at 
a range of a foot or so, for 
intricate positional purposes, 
at the head of the table, it 
is about as difficult a stroke 
as the game offers outside 
purely exhibition efforts In 
the stroke before us, how- 
ever, the cue-ball \<- quite 
close to the object, and the picture shows the 
way to make the stroke so well that detailed 
explanation is needless, But there is one 
point connected with this stroke which may 
well be enlarged upon — namely, the necessity 
for getting directly behind the cue-ball when 
making the stroke. Many beginners would 
want to play the shot with the body almost 
in line with the cushion. This is wrong. 
The thing to do is to bring the body into such 
a pose that the spot on the cue- ball is fairly 
between the eyes of the player at the moment 
of cue contact. 

Another plain-ball stroke is the pretty kiss 
cannon depicted in our concluding photograph 
(No- 10). This is a tricky little stroke which 
is sure to work out all wrong if the direct 

Digitized by G( 

follow is attempted, although it is apparent! v 
" on." Try it and see, and the balls will kiss 
and spoil the score every time. Yet the very 
cause of the trouble provides the remedy tf 
the kiss is bundled as it should be, " Make 
a contact about three-quarters thick on the 
red ball and strike the cue-ball in the middle, 
thus causing it to run through the red over the 
line shown to the right of 
the illustration. The 
object-ball will then run 
on to the side cushion, 
rebound, and strike the 
second object white full 
from behind, and drive 
it on to the oncoming 
cue-ball, thus making the 
cannon at the termina- 
tion of the line to the 
right of the red. The 
stroke sounds rather 
complicated, hut is ab- 
surdly easy. It must be 
played slowly, and should 
leave the balls well placed for a simple close 
cannon to follow. 

Now comes the moral of all these strokes, 
which is that every one of them has been 
accomplished by simply striking the cue-ball 
in its centre. Yet I know full well that if I made 


them in the ordinary run of my billiards before 

an audience of amateurs, the vast majority of 

those who saw the strokes played would wonder 

what " side " I used to produce such a wide 

variety of scoring effects. 

They would need more 

than a little convincing 

that the cue -ball had 

never been struck away 

from its centre ; yet such 

is indeed the fact, and a 

proper appreciation of 

what it means will go 

farther towards making 

a billiard - player than 

any other information I 

can give to my readers* 


(To be continued^ Original from 




Illustrated by Warwick Reynolds. 

quiet, genial bachelor. It 
there was anything that 
seemed to distinguish him 
from the familiar type of 
retired officer, it was his great 
breadth of shoulder. He was 
well over fifty, but still vigorous and active. 
On the day after his arrival in Paris f whither 
he had come on a week's visit, he breakfasted 
at nine and spent the morning in visiting 
some public places of interest. He lunched 
at a restaurant near the Porte St. Martin, 
where he found himself in a typically Parisian 
atmosphere, and after smoking a cigar began 
to stroll idly along the streets* Chance 
directed his steps in a northerly direction, and 
about three in the afternoon he found himself 
in the Montmartre district. 

He walked along in a casual manner, his 
hands clasped behind his back, watching 
everything with infinite relish. While passing 
up a side street his eye fell on a flamboyant 
advertisement outside a cinematograph show. 
The Colonel was not averse to rinematograph 
shows, and it struck him that here, perhaps^ 

he might see something out of the ordinary. 
The poster was certainly lurid. It represented 
a man being attacked by snakes, and Wedge 
understood enough French to read the state- 
ment underneath that the representation was 
absolutely life-like, and that the death-agony 
was a masterpiece of acting. 

" Rattlesnakes, 1 J reflected the Colonel, 
eyeing the poster. '* It's wonderful what 
they do in the way of films nowadays. Of 
course , they've taken out the poison glands." 

He stood for a short time studying the 
poster, which was extremely realistic, and 
then decided to enter. He went up to the 
ticket-office, which stood on the pavement, 
and paid the entrance fee. It was obvious 
that the establishment was not of the first 
order. A couple of rickety wine -shops 
flanked it one on either side, and the ticket- 
office was apparently an old sentry-box with 
a hole cut in the hark. 

Wedge took his ticket and glanced up the 
street. It was a day of brilliant sunshine. 
At the far end of the .narrow road there was a 
glimpse of the white domes of the Sacre 
C<£ur^Ml|4^fiBI%d^1c^rL | lt& ^Milom^ir.^Uncl a,nd looking 



like an Oriental palace. Only a few people 
were about, and the wine-shops were empty. 

A shaft of sunlight fell on the poster of 
the man fighting with rattlesnakes, and the 
Colonel looked at it again. It attracted him 
in some mysterious way, probably because 
physical problems interested him. 

" Seems to be in a kind of pit," he thought. 
" Otherwise he could run for it. It is cer- 
tainly life-like." 

He turned away, ticket in hand. A man 
standing before a faded plush curtain beckoned 
to him, and Wedge passed from the bright 
light of day into the darkness behind the 

He could see nothing. Someone took his 
arm and led him forward. The Colonel 
blinked, but the darkness was complete. 
Somewhere on his left he could hear the 
familiar clicking of a cinematograph. 

The hand on his arm piloted him gently 
along, and he had the impression of walking 
in a curve. But it seemed an intolerably 
long curve. Since he could not speak French, 
he was unable to ask how much farther he 
had to go. He felt vaguely that people were 
round him, close to him, and naturally con- 
cluded he was passing down the room where 
the performance was being held. 
. But where was the screen ? 

He could not see a ray of light. Heavy, 
impenetrable darkness was before him, and 
seemed to press on his eyelids like a cloth. 
Suddenly the hand on his arm was lifted. 
Wedge stopped, blinking. 

" Look here," he said, with a feeling of 
irritation, " where am I ? " 

There was no answer. He waited, listening. 
He could hear nothing. The clicking of the 
cinematograph was no longer audible. 

Deeply perplexed, he held out his arms 
before him and took a step forward. His 
outstretched foot descended on — nothing. 

Wedge fell forward and downwards with a 
sharp cry. His fall was brief, but it seemed 
endless to him. He landed, sprawling, on 
something soft. Before he could move he 
was caught and held down with his face 
pressed against the soft mass that felt like a 
heap of pillows. A suffocating, pungent odour 
assailed his nostrils, and gradually conscious- 
ness slipped away. 

When Colonel Wedge came to his senses he 
found himself in a small room lit by an oil-lamp 
hung against the wall. He was lying on a 
heap of mattresses, bound hand and foot. At 
first he stared vaguely upwards. Directly 
overhead was a circular mark in the ceiling. 
The sound of voices struck on his ears, and, 

looking round, he saw a group of men talking 
at a table near by. 

With startling suddenness memory came 
back. He glanced up at the ceiling. There 
was no doubt that the circular mark was the 
outline of the trap-door through which he- 
had fallen. He did not attempt to struggle, 
but lay passively searching in his mind for 
some explanation of his position. 

The men at the table were talking in loud 
voices, but they spoke in French. He could 
not understand what they said. 

He looked round at them. Five of them 
— there were half-a-dozen — were roughly 
dressed, with blue or red handkerchiefs 
knotted round their throats ; but one of them 
was of a different type, and looked like a 
prosperous business man. He was the spokes- 
man and leader of the group, and Wedge 
noticed that he had a peculiarly evil, energetic 
type of face. He spoke rapidly, occasionally 
nodding towards the heap of mattresses and 
employing violent gestures. From time to 
time he thumped the table before him. 
Finally he rose and crossed the room. 

" My name is Dance," he said. He stuck 
the cigar he was smoking into the corner of 
his mouth and went on speaking between 
his teeth. " I'm an Englishman by birth, 
and wonderfully fond of my fellow-country- 
men. That's why you are here. You're just 
the man I was wanting, and when I saw you 
looking at that poster I could have hugged 
myself. What did you think of it ? Good, 
eh ? Sorry you didn't see the film." 

He chuckled to himself. 

Wedge looked at him steadily and made 
no reply. The other shrugged his shoulders 
and turned away. Some further discussion 
followed, and then all six left the room. 

Wedge waited until the sound of their 
footsteps had died away in the passage with- 
out, and then raised himself. Owing to the 
way in which he was bound he could not stand 
up. He looked around keenly. There was 
only one door and no window. The walls 
were of rough brick, and it was clear the 
place was a kind of cellar. Save for the 
table and chairs there was no furniture. 
The stone floor was damp, and from one dark 
corner Wedge could hear the trickling of 
water. After the first scrutiny of his prison 
he lay back again on the mattresses and tried 
to think. He could hear no sound of the 
traffic or footsteps from the road, and guessed 
that it would be useless to shout. Save for 
the trickle of water and the occasional 
hissing and spurting of the lamp, the place 

was ttatftfdfrWtaKHIGAN 



The atmosphere was thick and close. The 
flame of the lamp grew smaller and smaller, 
and finally expired. Wedge lay in the dark- 
ness, open-eyed, listening to the beating of 
his heart. He was thirsty. His throat was 
dry and his head ached, and the cords round 
his wrists and feet bit into the flesh. He 
made several powerful attempts to burst 
them, but in vain. 

For what purpose did they want him ? 
If it was simply a question of robbery, why 
was he kept prisoner ? An eternity seemed 
to pass. In despair, he tried to sleep. But 
the question as to why he was in this prison 
repeated itself and made sleep impossible. 

Wedge was a man of tried courage, but 
there was something sinister in his position 
that caused disagreeable thrills to pass down 
his back. The trap-door, the chloroform, 
the cords, the group of evil-looking men were 
not reassuring incidents. Moreover, the isola- 
tion in complete darkness with the mono- 
tonous trickling of water unnerved him. 

An hour went by, and he made another 
violent attempt to release himself. His 
breath came in gasps. Before his shut eyes 
he saw sheets of red flame. But his efforts 
were useless. Thoroughly exhausted, he lay 
still again, staring upwards. 

Owing to some trick of vision, possibly 
because the strong sunlight had intensified 
the colouring of the poster while he was 
studying it, he saw a shadowy picture of the 
man fighting for his life in the pit full of 
rattlesnakes hovering before him in the dark- 
ness. He thought grimly that it would be 
some time before he would have the pleasure 
of seeing the representation of that film — 
perhaps never. The latter event was more 
likely. It was not probable that they would 
let him go free, because his freedom would 
mean their arrest. 

" They want me for some purpose," he 
muttered. " But what it is, Heaven knows. 
It can't be simple robbery. There's no point 
in murdering me. I'm not a person of any 
importance, so I don't see where the object 
of kidnapping comes in. Their game beats 
me, unless they've mistaken me for someone 

A step outside interrupted his reflections. 
He heard the door open. Something that 
sounded like a plate was put on the floor, 
and the steps retreated down the passage. 
After a few minutes they became audible 
again, and a light showed in the doorway. 
A man appeared holding a candle. Colonel 
Wedge realized that it was the intention of 
his captors that he should take some nourish- 

ment, and decided that to do so would 
be the wisest course. There was no reason why 
he should weaken himself by abstinence. 

He submitted to being fed by his jailer, 
and eagerly drank the harsh red wine that 
was offered to him. When the meal was 
finished he was left alone again, but the 
candle was put on the table. By watching 
its rate of decrease in length Wedge gained 
some idea of the passage of time. By a cal- 
culation based on the number of his heart 
beats,which were normally sixty to the minute, 
he deduced that the candle would last for 
about four hours. As a matter of fact. 
Wedge's deduction was wrong. The candle 
burned for three hours. Wedge was unaware 
that his heart was beating eighty to the minute. 

Months seemed to elapse before the candle 
shot up in a last flare. The Colonel stared 
at the walls, at the rough, unfaced bricks, 
at the trap-door in the ceiling. He closed his 
eyes and tried to sleep. He sat up at intervals 
and looked round him. He rolled from one 
side to another. But nothing helped to make 
the time pass more quickly, and when he 
was left again in darkness he felt for the first 
time in his life how easy it would be to 
go mad. 

The tramp of feet roused him from a 
drowsy, half-conscious condition. The door 
was flung open and a lantern shone in Wedge's 
eyes. The men who had sat at the table 
had returned. Two of them cut the cords 
round his ankles and pulled him on to his 
feet. He stood with difficulty, for his legs 
were numb. 

The man Dance, who had previously 
spoken to him, whose evil face had made an 
impression on the Colonel's mind, sat down 
at the table, and Wedge was placed before 

" Speak no French ? " he inquired. 

"No." ; 

The man nodded, and played with a thick 
gold ring on one of his fingers. His eyes 
were fixed on the Colonel's face. 

44 What am I here f or ? " asked Wedge, 

44 You'll see soon." 

44 Do you want my money ? " 

44 We've taken that already." 

They looked at each other steadily. The 
others in the cellar shuffled uneasily. They 
did not seem to be so certain of themselves 
as the man at the table. 

41 You're an English officer, aren't you ? " 

" Ves." 

44 And you've sten some fighting ? " 

The Colonel shrugged Jus^ shoulders and 



said nothing. He refused to submit to a 
cross-examination at the hands of this 

" All right/' said the other, " Don't get 
rngry. I promise you that you'll see some 
moTe fighting before you die." 

Something in the man's expression made 
Wedge take a quick step towards the table. 

" What do you mean ? Are vou going to 
kill me ? ?J 

There was no answer, but the silence was 
enough* Wedge relaxed his attitude slowly. 

" Is it money you need ? " he asked, after 
a pause, 

th What's the good of offering us money ? 

They were wildly excited* They were all 
round Wedge, shouting and gesticulating and 
brandishing their fists in his face. He stood 
impassively in the centre of them with his 
hands bound. What was this riot ? Why 
did the eyes of these men shine so strangely ? 

" Two thousand/' he said, steadily. 

11 Impossible ! TJ The man at the table 
jumped up. l< This is only a waste of time*" 

He caught up the lantern and went out* 
The others j pushing Wedge before thcm ? 
followed. They passed through a long stone 
corridor, down some narrow steps, and 
stopped before an iron door. Wedge heard 
the fumbling of keys, the creak of a rusty 



Once you got out of this place you would 
give us away to the police. Yes, we need 
money ? but not from you." 

One thought dominated Wedge's mind. It 
was clear that the situation did not demand 
any unnecessary heroism. If anything could 
effect his escape he was perfectly justified in 
making use of it. 

11 I will grve you a thousand pounds, and 
will promise not to put the affair in the hands 
of the police/' he said, 

"He offers money, and gives his word of 
honour to say nothing to the police ! " 
exclaimed the other, looking at the men 
behind Wedge. 

There was an outburst of violent opposition. 

lock j and the door swung open. The interior 
was dark. 

Dance stood by the door, holding the 
lantern aloft. In obeyance to a brief com- 
mand Wedge's hands were released* 

" Hand him the dub," 

A stout cudgel of twisted wood, with a 
heavy nobbed end, was thrust into his hands. 
But Wedge was a man of action . and he saw 
in a flash that if he was to escape from his 
unknown fate the opportunity had come. 
They w r ere trying to push him through the 
door into the dark interior. 

" Vile I II est dangereux 1 " exclaimed the 
man with the kntern. 

^iffitfSffftPRifflBsrN He swung ^ 



club swiftly round, and the lantern fell, 
smashed to atoms. In a moment he was 
seized by half-a-dozen hands. He fought 
powerfully, but they hung on to him grimly, 
and little by little he was thrust forward. 
He had not enough space to use the club. 
He dropped it and used his fists, and more 
than once struck the stone walls in the con- 
fusion of the struggle in the dark. Then 
someone got hold of his throat, while the others 
fastened on his arms, and he was thrown 
backwards. He heard the clang of the iron 
door and lay gasping on the floor. 

A blinding white light suddenly shone down 
on. him. He staggered to his feet and looked 
round, shading his eyes with his hands from 
the dazzling glare. He was in a circular 
space bounded by smooth white walls. The 
floor was sanded. Above him burned half-a- 
dozen arc-lamps, whose brilliant rays were 
reflected directly downwards by polished 
metal discs. The upper part of the place was 
in shadow, but he could make out an iron 
balcony running partly round the wall, about 
fifteen feet above the sanded floor. 

Colonel Wedge went to the wall and began 
to examine its surface. It was smooth, and 
seemed made of painted iron. The outline 
of the door through which he had been flung 
was visible on one side, but directly opposite 
there was the outline of another door. He 
went towards it. It was also made of iron 
like the surrounding structure, and appa- 
rently opened outwards. He pushed at it, 
but it was shut. 

A sound of something falling on the floor 
made him turn. The wooden cudgel had been 
thrown down from the iron platform above. 
Looking up, he could dimly see a number of 
faces staring down at him, and also a couple 
of box-like instruments, one at either end of 
the platform. It was difficult to see clearly, 
for the light of the arc-lamps was intense. 
He stared up, shielding his eyes, and then 
suddenly he saw what they were. A couple 
of cinematograph machines were trained on 
the floor below ! 

It was not until then that Wedge fully 
realized his position. The picture of the man 
fighting the rattlesnakes was suddenly ex- 
plained. He remembered the pit. He walked 
to the centre and stood with clenched fists. 
Here was the pit. Extremely life-like I 

He stooped and picked up the cudgel. At 
any rate, whatever he had to face, he would 
make a fight for it. 

Mechanically he found himself watching 
the second door. It was through that door 
that the menare of death would come. 

Up on the platform they were whispering 

His brain was clear, and he felt calm. 
He knew that whatever came out from 
behind that door would have the intention 
to kill. And he knew, also, that it was not 
the wish of the onlookers that he should 
triumph. It would not be a fair fight. In 
the moments of suspense he wondered in a 
kind of deliberate, leisurely way what was 
coming. They would not repeat the rattle- 
snake picture. That had already had its 
victim. In this arena one man had acted 
the part of fear with marvellous realism — 
perhaps others as well. 

Cudgel in hand, reidy and braced, with his 
free hand at his moustache, Colonel Wedge 
waited, his eyes fixed on the door. 

" Ah, I think you understand now," said 
a voice out of the shadows above. " We hope 
that this will make a fine film, the finest of 
this series that we have done yet." 

Wedge did not move a muscle. 

" We rely on you to do your best for us." 

Somewhere at the bottom of his heart the 
Colonel registered a vow that if he ever got 
out of that place alive he would kill Dance. 

A chuckle followed and then silence, except 
for the sizzling of the arc-lamps. 

Then he heard a sound of clicking. The 
cinematograph machines had begun. 

" Ready ? " 

Wedge took his breath slowly. The door 
was opening. 

He saw a gap of blackness widening in the 
white circular wall. The hand that was at 
his moustache fell to his side. The cudgel 
rose a trifle, and the muscles of his right arm 
stiffened. Inch by inch, without a creak, 
the door swung outwards until it stood widely 

For a few seconds nothing appeared. The 
suspense was becoming unendurable, and 
Wedge had just made up his mind to approach 
when he saw an indistinct form moving in 
the background of the shadowy interior, and 
next moment a big yellow beast slipped out 
and stood blinking in the strong light. He 
recognized the flat diamond head and tufted 
ears in a moment. The door clanged behind 

" Puma,", he muttered, with his eyes on 
the brute, and a spark of hope glowed in his 
heart. There were worse brutes to face 
single-handed than pumas, and he knew 
something of the capriciousness of the animal. 
It was just possible 

His thoughts ceased abruptlv. The beast 

w!,s »feiffoWcte,1t Mly ,0 thc 


21 I 






wall, and began to walk slowly round and 
round. Wedge, turning as it moved, always 
faced it. It quickened its pace into a trot, 
and as it ran it looked only occasionally at 
the man in the centre. It seemed more 
interested in the wall. At times it stretched 
its head and peered upwards. 

In its lean white jaw and yellow eyes there 
was no message of hatred for the moment. 
Suddenly it stopped and listened. The 
clicking of the cinematograph had attracted 
it. It stood up against the wall, clawing at 
the paint. Then it squatted on its haunches, 
with its back to Wedge, and blinked up at the 
platform overhead. 

The heavy fetid odour of the beast filled 
the air. Wedge relaxed himself a little, but 
the puma heard the movement, for it looked 
round swiftly. It behaved as if it had seen 
him for the first time, and began to pace 
round and round again, eyeing him. It 
came to a halt near the door from which it 
had emerged, and lay down flat, with its 
paws outstretched, watching Wedge. He 
caught the sheen of its eyes. He remained 
still, for at the slightest movement the brute 

As yet he could read nothing vindictive 
in its look, but he knew that at any moment 
it might change into a raging, snarling demon 
and spring. Being a believer in the idea that 
animals are in some way conscious of the 
emotional state in others and act accord- 
ingly, he tried to banish all sense of fear and 
all sense of ill-will from his mind, and look at 
it calmly and indifferently. 

The puma, with its fore-paws extended on 
the sand and its head raised, blinked lazily 
at him. It seemed half asleep by its attitude. 
Sometimes the brilliant eyes were almost 

" Mordieu ! " said a voice above. " He 
wants rousing." 

In a flash the animal was on its feet, rigid 
and glaring up. Apparently the platform 
overhead roused its anger. Its tail began 
to whip from side to side, and its lip lifted 
at one corner in a vicious snarl, uncovering the 
white fang. 

A clamour of voices broke out. The whole 
aspect of the beast changed. Its eyes blazed. 
It stooped on its belly, glaring upwards. 
Was it possible it recognized an old enemy 
amongst the spectators ? 

Wedge waited anxiously, and the sweat 
began to break out on his brow. 

With bared claws, the animal crouched, 
still looking upwards. It seemed to have 
forgotten Wedge. The men were shouting 

at it and stamping with their feet on the iron 
floor of the platform. The beast put one 
paw out and crept forward. The muscles 
rippled and bulged under the skin. 

" It's going to spring," thought Wedge. 
" But it's not looking at me." 

Slowly step by step the beast advanced. 
It passed scarcely two feet away from Wedge, 
and went on without looking at him. When 
it was almost directly under the platform it 
stopped and snarled upwards. 

Then someone threw a lighted match on 
its back, and straightway it became trans- 
formed into the devil-cat of tradition. 

Wedge was never quite clear as to its 
movements after that, for it flashed round 
the arena like a streak of yellow lightning. 
He raised his club, but the brute was not 
after him. It went twice, and then a third 
time, round the white walls, and stopped for 
an instant, taut and low on the sandy floor. 
And then it shot up in a magnificent leap 
towards the shadows above the arc-lamps. 

The shouts from the platform ceased 
suddenly, and then a wild hubbub broke out. 

Wedge heard the rattling and scraping 
of the beast's claws against the railings above 
and a shriek of terror. There was a stampede 
of feet. A loud series of snarls followed 
and the sound of a body falling heavily. 

Wedge stood for a moment dazed. Then 
he dashed across to the door through which 
the beast had entered, and flung all his weight 
against it. He tried again and again with all 
the weight of his powerful shoulders. It 
yielded with a crash, and he fell flat into the 
cage on the other side, amongst the foul 

He was up in an instant. By the light of 
the arc-lamps in the arena he could make 
out that the cage had an iron grating on one 
side closed by a bolt. He thrust his hand 
through the bars and worked back the bolt. 
Next moment he was out of the cage and 
running down a dark stone corridor, cudgel 
in hand, and determined to brain anyone 
who stood in his path. At the top of a flight 
of steps he came to a door barred from the 
inside. He flung aside the fastenings and 
staggered out into the sweet night air. 

When the police raided the cellars under 
the cinematograph show a few hours later, 
led by Wedge, they found the puma asleep 
in its open cage, and above, on the iron 
platform, all that was left of Mr. Dance, 
inventor and producer of life-like films. 

It was not until daylight came that Wedge 
discovered they had blackened his eyebrows 
and drawn disfiguring lines across his face. 







Humours of Parliamentary Life 

Wit* Repartee, and Story in tke House of Commons 


Illustrated by H. M. Bateman. 


T takes very little to tickle the 
risibilities of our M.P.'s during 
a debate, A nervous member 
sitting on his hat, a partly- 
forgotten speech, a blunder in 
Parliamentary deportment, or 
an innovation in the way of 
dress is sufficient to set members gurgling 
with merriment. The House was never more 
amused, for instance, than when Mr. Winston 
Churchill had the temerity to stroll down to 
the floor of the House, during an all-night 
sitting, wearing a pair of slippers., a flannel 
suit, and a graceful 
collar that over- 
flowed his neck. 

shouted someone. 
" Take them off, 
Churchill !" yelled 
another ; while even 
Mr. Lloyd George 
turned a reproving 
countenance on the 
First Lord of the 
Admiralty, as the 
latter made prepa- 
rations to fly, and 
exclaimed, " Oh, 
and pink of all 
colours ! " 

The House, 
is never slow 
to seize upon 
an uninten- 
tional personal 
touch in a 
speech, a fact 
which M r. 
McKenna may 
vouch for. Two weeks after his marriage to 
that charming and most successful of political 
hostesses, Miss Pamela Jekyll, in 1908, he 
was "on the floor/' arguing in favour of the 
Government's Old-Age Pension scheme. 

" It is relatively cheaper for two persons 
living together than one," he declared. 

" You ought to know, anyway," cried the 



quick-witted Will Crooks from the Labour 

A blush and a smile illuminated Mr. 
McKenna's countenance. 

" Well, I hope it will be cheaper," he 
remarked quietly, and members broke into 
renewed guffaws, as they thought, perhaps, 
of their own sad disillusionment. 

And there was a smile on the face of the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and loud laughter 
from both sides of the House, when Mr. 
Llewelyn Williams, the worthy member for 
Carmarthen, sought to excuse, a short time 

ago, in answer to 
z» a question by the 

Marquess of 
Tullibardine, the 
introduction on 
the much-abused 
insurance stamp 
of the daffodil in 
the place of the leek, as emble- 
matic of the Principality of Wales. 
Adroit in the use of the Welsh 
tongue, Mr. Llewelyn Williams 
suggested that " Cenin Pedr," or 
" Peter's leek," was the Welsh 
for daffodil, and " thought it was 
only through a mistranslation of 
the word by Shakespeare — or 
Bacon — or some other ignorant 
Saxon, that a stinking vegetable 
had become the national emblem 
in place of a charming bloom. 

Apropos of the 
language of the 
there is nothing 
which delights 
"Mabon," the 
member for Rhondda Valley, more than 
to air his Welsh in the House. He does 
not get many opportunities, but when he 
does he invariably floors his opponent, as 
Lord Alverstone, who on one memorable 
occasion was his victim, will readily 
admit. Some years ago there was a debate, 
in the course of which " Mabon " made a 




2 *5 

speech in Welsh, or rather introduced some 
Welsh sentences by way of illustration. 
The occasion was the appointment of a judge 
for a Welsh county court who could not speak 
the native language. The Attorney-General, 
as Lord Alverstone then was, defended the 
appointment, arguing that the judge's ignor- 
ance of Welsh was not a practical incon- 
venience. It was an unlucky remark, for 
it brought up " Mabon," and Lord Alverstone 
w r ould probably confess now that he was 
completely beaten. 

" So the Welsh language does not matter ? " 
said " Mabon." " Very well. Let us sup- 
pose we are in the county court at Ynys-y- 
Maengwyn, and the Attorney-General is the 
judge. I am the .plaintiff, seeking payment 
for a pair of boots. The Attorney-General 
asks me if I am prepared to swear if the boots 
delivered to the defendant were rights and 
lefts, or otherwise, as the defendant declares. 
That being a delicate question, which I could 
hardly trust myself to answer in English, 
suppose I said : ' Cymmer, dau bwech, ar 
gwastad clawdd lluest twich ; pen-dre pistull 
bwich dwy hafodtai lech wedd, Yspvtty ? ' 
Now," shouted " Mabon," " what would the 
hon. and learned gentleman have replied to 

At the time of the perpetration of the joke, 
no little speculation was rife as to the identity 
of the disciple of the late Sir Wilfrid Lawson, 
bard of the House, who wrote the following 
lines, apropos of the dinner to thousand- 
pound subscribers to the party funds, given 
a short time ago by the Duke of Westminster. 
A few days after the banquet a number of 
questions were asked in the House of Com- 
mons concerning the importation of Colonial 
wines and Colonial chilled meat. When 
answered, Mr. King, M.P. for North Somerset, 
rose and asked, " Were those wines and this 
chilled meat provided at the recent banquet 
in support of Imperial Preference at Gros- 
venor House ? " And it was in reference to 
this question that an M.P. addressed to 
Mr. King the following lines : — 

The feast was dull, the dishes cold, 
Each diner knew he had been sold ; 
Meat that in ice had crossed the line, 
Washed down by flat Australian wine, 
Is not a bill of fare that sounds 
Like value for a thousand pounds. 
I fear our Tories will succumb 
To such Imperial martyrdom, 
Which, while involving vast expense 
To boom Colonial preference, 
Is, frankly speaking, rather like 
A milder kind of hunger strike. 

Later, the secret was betrayed to the 
writer of this article that the humorous 

bard was Mr. D. T. Holmes, M.P. for 

As an example of caustic Parliamentary 
humour, the supplementary question put by 
the irrepressible Tim Healy to Mr. Brodrick 
(now Viscount Midleton), when the latter was 
acting as War Secretary during the South 
African War, would be hard to beat. 

The Boers were winning battle after battle, 
and there was much criticism regarding the 
capabilities of officers and leaders. Ulti- 
mately some member put the questioji to 
Mr. Brodrick as to how many horses he had 
dispatched to South Africa. He gave an 
answer, whereupon Mr. Tim Healy got up 
and put a supplementary question, " Would 
the right hon. gentleman kindly inform the 
House how many asses he has sent to South 
Africa ? " 

Mention of asses reminds one of the Irish 
M.P. who once interrupted the oratory of an 
enemy of his country by ejaculating " Ass ! " 
" The honourable member/ ' came the light- 
ning retort, " flatters me too much in claiming 
me as kinsman." And then there was the 
occasion when a scion of a noble house, 
defending his order, asked, " Is it not right 
that, in order to hand down to posterity 
the virtues of those who have been eminent 
for their services to the country, their descen- 
dants should enjoy the honours conferred on 
them as a reward for such services ? " 

" By the same rule," chimed in the late 
Mr. Labouchere, " if a man is hanged for 
his misdeeds, all his posterity should be 
hanged too." 

More often than not it is Irish wit that 
scores in the House of Commons, and many 
a time during an exciting debate both Con- 
servatives and Liberals have been non- 
plussed by the ready repartee of M.P.'s from 
the Emerald Isle. There was one memorable 
occasion, however, and it is recalled by 
George W. Smalley in " Anglo-American 
Memories," when Irish members were for 
the moment stricken dumb by the retort of 
a member who could not afterwards be 

Mr. Chamberlain, while speaking on the 
Home Rule question, said something regard- 
ing the late Duke of Devonshire, whereupon 
a Nationalist member asked, " How long is 
it since the Duke of Devonshire has been in 
Ireland ? " and from across the floor came 
the answer, like a flash of lightning, " Not 
since his brother was murdered in Phoenix 

Mr. Smalley considers this retort worthy 
to rank with Colonel Sanderson's answer to 

by L^OOgle 

■_| 1 1 I :i I I I '_' I I 




a demand for his reasons against Home Rule. 
" There are/' answered the gallant colonel ? 
promptly, *' in this House sixty-nine pood and 
sufficient reasons against Home Rule, and 
there they sit." 

The House of Commons, however, is never 
so amused as when u member is betrayed, 
in his enthusiasm, into a mixed metaphor. 
Mr, Balfour, some time ago, spoke of " an 
empty theatre of unsympathetic auditors.'' 
while Lord Curzon remarked that l " thouirh 
not out of the wood, we have a good ship," 
Sir William Hart Dyke has told how Air. 
Low t her " had caught a 
big fish in his net, and 
went to the top of the tree 
for it," while a financial 
Minister assured the 
Commons that " the 
steps of the Government 
should go hand in hand 
with the interests of the 
manufacturer/' And it 
wus in the Lords that 
the Government was 
warned that u the con- 
stitutional rights of the 
people were being 
trampled upon by the 
mailed hand of autho- 

According to the testi- 
mony of Mr. Jeremiah 
MacVeagh, who has .sat 
as Nationalist member 
for South Down since 
1902, and whose witti- 
cisms have frequently 
during the past ten 
years made the House 
ring with laugh ter, Mr + 
Winston Churchill is one 
of the greatest masters 
of repartee in the Com- 
mons. It is not so long 
ago, when the First Lord 
of the Admiralty was speaking, that someone 
interrupted with the cry of * l Rot ! " 

At once came the retort, t£ 1 have no doubt 
the horn gentleman is speaking what is in 
his mind." 

It is to Mr. Winston Churchill, by the way, 
that we owe the wittiest summing-up of 
a Parliamentary candidate : " He is asked 
to stand, he wants to sit, and he is expected 
to lie." Mr. Churchill is also credited with 
the conundrum : *' What is the difference 
between a candidate and an JLl\ ? " 
To which he supplied the answer, " One 


■repkksent nobody »rr themselves, 


stands for a place and the other sits for 

Mr + Lowther. the Speaker, has a pretty 
turn of wit at times. A Minister one day. 
replying to a question, said he had nothing 
to add to an answer he had already given on 
the subject, *' Arising out of that answer,'" 
commenced a determined questioner, but 
he got no farther, The Speaker was on his 
feet immediately. LC Nothing arises out of 
nothing, ,? he said, in his quiet, suave manner. 
And the House roared. 
The Speaker also had a quiet " dig '* at 
Mr. Lloyd George a short 
time ago when he per- 
formed the opening cere- 
mony at the Carlisle 
flower, fruit, and honey 
show. Mr. Lowther is 
an enthusiastic gardener, 
and during the course of 
iiis remarks said : — 

14 To-day we are all 
interested in flowers. 
Everyone must have his 
herbaceous border. No 
one is considered a 
gentleman who has not 
a pergola, and if we want 
to be qualified for a posi- 
tion in society we must 
have a rock garden." He 
did not want to dogma- 
tize to them on the 
subject , but he thought 
it was due to the fact 
that they were all richer 
than they had been — so 
far as the Chancellor of 
' the Exchequer would 
allow them — and they 
found that while all their 
other pleasures were 
heavily taxed, gardens, 
as such, were not at pre- 
sent taxed. He might 
say to them, *' Gather ye roses while ye may/ 1 
because they might have a severe tax placed 
on gardens as soon as it was discovered 
what a pleasure they gave to those who 
cultured them, 

There are two members of the Cabinet 
whose speeches^ usually full of wit, humour, 
and brilliant epigrams, are always a delight 
to both parties. Reference is made to Mr. 
Birrell and Lord Haldane, What, for instance, 
could be happier than the former's reply to 
the bishop who condoled with him on the 
defeat of his RducatjonJii!! ? .The President 

eat of his Education Bill ? 1 





of the BoaTd of Education, as Mr. Birrell 
then was, replied with a twinkle in his eye : — 

" Yes, my lord, the Bill is dead, but I 
believe in the resurrection of the dead/' 

One of his best epigrams was that which 
he applied once to the Upper Chamber. 
' k The House of Lords/' he said^ il represent 
nobody but themselves, and they enjoy the 
full confidence of their constituents " ; while 
of the Press he has said, " I agree that the 
Press is a mirror of the age. It reflects 
what people were 
supposed to want, 
far more than what 
they really want." 

Mr. BirrelPs de- 
seriptionof the House 
of Lords might be 
followed by Sir John 
Benn's allusion to the 
Commons, which he 
has described as 
being " like one of the 
ancient clocks in the 
Gu ildhall Museum — 
a splendid piece of 
old work, which ex- 
cites the admiration 
of everyone, but 
useless for modern 
time-keeping. It 
wants a new main- 
spring and the latest 
improvements to 
make it go*" 

Here is a story 
which Lord Haldane 
tells against himself, 
but in praise of the 
astuteness of Mr. 
Joseph Chamberlain. 

says, '-' in 1898 being very anxious to get 
a Bill through Parliament for the establish- 
ment of a teaching university in London — 
there was then only an examining university 
—and 1 wont to Mr. Chamberlain, who was 
then very influential in the Government, 
Mr. Chamberlain said to me, ' Excellent ; 
butj dear me ; there is Birmingham/ and 
before I knew vhere I was he had got a 
charter through tor Birmingham and a teach- 
ing university established in Birmingham/' 

It is, however, in the smoking and dining 
rooms of the House of Commons that one 
hears the most humorous stories, when, 
forgetting for a time that there are such 
worries as debates and divisions, members 
'* swop " electioneering and sporting stories 
with zest and gusto. 


I remember/' he 

There is a gem of a golfing story, for in- 
stance, told by Mr. Akcrs- Douglas concerning 
a certain player and an irritating caddie. 
The latter followed so closely, and was so 
anxious to please by intelligent anticipation, 
that the player had several narrow escapes 
of severely disfiguring him. After a tedious 
and unprofitable round he paid him off, gave 
him his lunch -ticket and threepence for 
cleaning his clubs, and addressed him : 
11 You know, you are not quite perfect as a 
caddie. There is room for improvement. 
But as an agent for an accident insurance 
company you are pretty hot stuff. What is 
your name ? ? The caddie, a stolid-looking 

and hitherto silent 
youth, moved, like 
Balaam's ass, by the 
exigencies of the 
situation, opened his 
mouth and replied, 
" Mustard ! " 

Mr. Balfour figures 
in a number of golf- 
ing stories of doubt- 
ful authenticity , but 
the following is 
vouched for. The 
first time he ever 
played at St, -An- 
drews he was being 
closely watched by 
one pair of eyes. The 
critic was an old 
lady , who was a great 
political admirer of 
Mr. Asquith. She 
could see nothing 
wrong in him, and 
even forgave him 
his golfing faults. When Mr, Balfour turned 
up at the old course for the first time, 
she went down to watch him. He did not 
play so well as he does now, and he wound up 
a rather difficult round by topping his tee 
shot at the eighteenth , the ball failing even 
to reach the burn. That satisfied the old 
lady. " Aye, aye/' she muttered^ audibly, 
and with evident satisfaction, " Asquith at 
his worst was a deal better than that ! " 

Mention of Sir John Benn reminds one that 
he and John Burns some years ago paid a 
visit to America, the former describing him- 
self as Sane ho Panza to Mr. Burns's Don 
Quixote. Anent this visit, the President of 
the Local Government Board relates that he 
was one of a party who were seeing a cele- 
brated town, and the guide, who was showing 
them the atiractfens, pointing to the river, 




have done that necessary sanitary pro- 
cess , they have to disinfect it with 
chloride of lime, manganese, and iron. 
This clearing process does not suffice , 
because after all these operations are 
carried out so many dangerous bacteria 
have escaped the ladder, the gimlet. 


said : " Ladies and gentle- 
men j you see through the 
trees the broad and heaving 
bosom of the River Potomac, 
That is the source from which 
we get a very generous water 
supply. The poor use it for 
soup, the middle-class dye 
their clothes with it, and 
the very rich top-dress their 
lawns and gardens with it. 
Drive on, Sam," 

Mr. Burns says he also 
had a description of a water 
supply from Canada. A town ? 
enterprising in many ways, 
was exceedingly anxious to 
score off the rival town east 
of them, and, referring to 
itself, said: "Edmonton is 
a young but pushful city 
that prides itself on its water 
supply. We have no desire 
to depreciate our eastern 
rival, but in the matter of 
water supply we are far 
ahead of her. Ilie wood 
and the flotsam and jetsam 
and timber are so bad in 
their reservoirs that thev 
have to filter the water 
through a ladder. The 
citizens have to extract the 
water from the dibris with 
a gimlet , and when thi 


and chloride of lime that 
they have to be taken into 
the back yard and killed 
with a club ! T ' 

A story which is a great 
favourite at St, Stephen's 
concerns a painfully em- 
barrassing situation in which 
Mr, Sydney Buxton once 
found himself. The incident 
was first related by his 
cousin ; Mr. Sydney Holland, 
the chairman of the Poplar 
Hospital, and has been going 
the rounds since. It appears 
that Mr, Buxton one day 
pot to a railway station five 
minutes before the train 
arrived, and sat down on a 
bank to wait. 

When he got into a com- 
partment he found his coat 
and waistcoat full of ants, 
so he took them off and 
shook them. Shortly after- 
wards he fe t the ants inside 
his trousers, so he took 
them off, and was shaking 
them out of the window 
when a passing train took 
the trousers out of his hand. 

This was very awkward. 
He was going to a Cabinet 
passing train took thr Council, and he had on a 
3 out of his HAwfirig f ruck<oat but no trousers. 




At the next stop- 
ping-place he 
called to a porter , 
" I have had the 
misfortune to 
throw my trousers 
out of the win- 

" That won't 
do" said the porter, and he 
shouted to the guard, "Here's 
a bloke in the first-class with- 
out any bags on ! " 

The guard came up ; and, 
seeing how things were, tele- 
graphed to King's Cross : 
il There is a Cabinet Minister 
in the train who has thrown 
his trousers out of the win- 
dow. Get another pair for 

When Sydney Buxton got 
to London he was provided 
with a pair of green trousers 
such as porters wear T and in 
them he went to the Cabinet 

Election stories, of course, are legion, and 
perhaps one of the best, concerning the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer, is that which 
appears in Dr. Farquharson's Reminiscences* 
Mr, Lloyd George was speaking at a Liberal 
meeting not a hundred miles from Redhill. 
Surrey, of the unfulfilled prophecies and 
promises of a certain statesman , and quite 
accidentally he stretched his arm right over 
the head of Sir Jeremiah Colman, one of the 
local pillars of Liberalism, who was sitting 
close to him on the platform, " We have 
had enough of those political Jeremiahs/ 5 lie 
cried out. The audience rose to the joke, 
and laughed and clapped vociferously. And 
perhaps for the first time in his life the little 
Welshman stood completely nonplussed, for 
it was not until the meeting was over that 
he found out where the humour had come in. 

The " champion barker/' or stump orator, 
of the Tariff Reform party, as Sir Georpe 
Doughty, the member for Grimsby, has been 
described, relates how on one occasion at 
an open-air meeting in Hull the table on 
which he was standing torn men red to rock. 
Sir George, flinging out his arms for the 
nearest support, clutched a lump-post, and 
remarked that they were useful to hang on 
to sometimes. 

" Yes, and you're net the only man who's 
found that out 1 " shouted a wag in the 

Digitized by C-OOQ I C 

And the late 
Lord Furness 
was the victim of 
an amusing ban 
mot when he was 
contesting York 
against Lord 
Charles Beres- 
ford. To the aid 
of Lord Charles 
came his two 
brothers .and the 
trio were cor- 
dially chaffed on 
the number of 
Beresfords in 
the field- But 
"Charlie" was 
ready with the 
apt retort: 
u Yes, here we 
are — Shadrach, 
Meshach, and 
Abednego, come 
to save you from 
the fiery Fur- 

Sir George Doughty *s amusing if embarrass- 
ing experience calls to mind that of Sir George 

Kemp. "What," 

pertinently asked a 

man in the crowd 

at a meeting, " have 

m e m b e r s been 

dt ling in London 

during the past few 

weeks ? "' Before Sir 

George could frame 

a reply, a woman 

cried out, 4 ' There's 

no telling/' 


NEAREST Sjff^^al^pgT^HED A LAMP- POST.* 1 




And apparently there are others who are 
suspicious of the doings of M.F/s in town, 
judging by a story which Mr, J, A. Pease tells 
of the days when he was Liberal Whip. 
During an all-night sitting of the House of 
Commons a certain member was, as he 
thought, absent, The gentleman was really 
present at every division, but he was snatch- 
ing sleep at intervals in one of the recesses 
of the House. Mr, Pease, however, not 
having noticed him in the division lobby, 
sent a telegram to his house at seven o'clock 
in the morning, saying, " Come down at once 
and relieve the guard and those at work all 
night. " The member turned 
up at his own house at eight 
o'clock in the morning, and 
expected to find a warm 
welcome from his wife and 
family and a good deal of 
sympathy for having been 
in the House aH night. But 
his wife's greet- 
ing was, "Where 
have you been? 3 * 
He replied, " I 
have been at 
the House at 
an all-night sit- 
ting." "Now 
it's no use you 
telling me lies/ 1 
said the good 
lady, and she 
produced from 
under the pillow ^ 
Mr, Pease's tele- 

Dr. Macna- " 
mara managed 
to score when an 

excited old lady demanded at one of his 
meetings, " Are you in favour of the repeal 
of the blasphemy laws ? " 

" Madam," was the grave reply , "I am 
a golfer." 

The most appreciated election story which 
Dr. " Mac " tells, however, is that of an 
occasion when he was speaking in the central 
hall of a large Board school. In the rooms 
around the hall were numbers of side- 

ix I arrived late," said Dr. Macnamara, 
'* and had some difficulty in making a path 
through the crowded hall. Finding my way 
barred by an exceedingly good-looking voung 
lady leaning on the arm of an exceedingly 


good-looking young gentleman, I could not 
help overhearing the following conversa- 
tion : — 

" What's on here to-night, George ? " 
" Oh, some speechify ing., I belie ve." 
" Who is speaking ? " 
" Dr. Macnamara." 

" Let's go back to one of the dark class- 
rooms, George," 

Neither is this young lady the only one 
who has no very exalted idea of our legis- 

" Some of the members," says Will Crooks , 
when telling this story against himself, 

" fancy them- 
selves very much 
when showing 
friends round 
the House* 
When I was first 
elected, how- 
ever,! remember 
as I took my 
d a u g h 
through West- 
minster Hall she 
said to me, * You 
know, daddy, 
in our kitchen, 
but you ain't 
much here/ JJ 

And clisagree- 
a b 1 e people 
assert that there 
are many elec- 
sentiments ex- 
pressed by a con- 
stituent to one 
of the Rev. Syl- 
vester Home's canvassers at the election of 
191O; which resulted in him being returned 
for Ipswich as the only active Congregational 
M.P, Mr. Home relates how his canvasser hap- 
pened upon an artisan reading the addresses 
and studying the faces of the two candidates. 
"Well,' what do you think of them?" 
asked the canvasser. 

The voter shrugged his shoulders and said 

" Which candidate would you like to vote 
for ? T? persisted the other. 

" Don't know anything about none of 'em/ 1 
replied the British elector. " But what I 
see of 'em, I thank 'Eaven as only one can 

get m. 

by Google 

Original from 



Illustrated by Rene Bull. 

ANT more string ? '" said Mrs. 
Hopper, as she drew her arms 
out of the wash tub. " Any- 
body might think I was made 
of string, the way you go on. 
Why, I give you a great long 
piece only yesterday. Can't 
think what you do with all the string/' 

u Well, mother/* said Dick, " 1 know 
what 1 did with that piece. First you 
took half of it back again/' 

" I don't want no impertinence. If 
parcels have to be done up, whose fault's 
that ? " 

M Then Tom 
took half of 
what was left to 
go fishing for 
stick! y-backs in 
the canal — 
where there 
ain't none/* 

" Tom's your 
elder brother, 
and it's your 
place to give 
way to him/' 

" Yes, I dare 
say ; but it 
didn't leave 

much, and father took I If of that to mend 
his braces what he broke through laughing 
at the motor-accident ; and sister had three - 
fifths of what was left after to tie her hair 
back/ 1 

" Ah, but what did you do with ail the rest 
of it ? " 

" All the rest of it ! Why, there wasn't 
but nine inches left for myself, and how was 
I going to make a telephone of that ? " 

By a curious coincidence Mrs. Hopper was 
washing for a lady who possessed a square 
flower-bed, one side of which was just the 
length of the piece of string that Mrs. Hopper 
gave Dick, The lady meant to plant this 
bed with tulip-bulbs, one bulb to every 
square foot. She bought the requisite number 
of bulbs at seven shillings and sixpence per 
hundred, and paid for them with a sovereign. 
She received her change inthe smallest number 
of coins in which it could be paid, which 

number, by another coincidence, gives us 
what we have been trying to get at all along — 
the height of Dick's sister in feet* 
How tall was she ? 

It had not been a good year for apples, and 
Adam expected to do pretty well with those 
that he had picked from his orchard. When 

he got back 
from w r ork in 
the evening, 
Eve, his wife, 
said to him : — 

(t Mr. Green of 
Pudley has been 
in, and he says 
he will give you 
two shillings and 
twopence a 
bushel for those 
five bushels of 

"Will he?" 
said Mr. Smith, 
"No j thank you. 
I shall do better 
than that/ 1 

Sure enough, 
next day he sold 
a third of the 
apples at half a crown a bushel. 

But after that his luck went wrong. Days 
passed, and there was no further bid. A 
quarter of a bushel of apples went bad and 
had to be thrown away, Adam was very 
glad to take two shillings a bushel for the 

" You'd have done better to have taken 
Mr, Green's offer/' said Eve. " But you never 
would listen to advice/' 

i£ Shouldn't have done so well/' growled 
Which, of them was right ? 

Old Josh came into the village market- 
place with a cheap line of rugs. They were all 
uniform in size, quality, colour, and design. 

The first customer took some rugs, and 
Josh charged her three shillings each, The 
second customer took same rugs, and Josh 
charg|d(Hheiftyf$'(il4ipifrtC^*tehtpence each. 




rugs ? 

The third took some 
and she got 
for two shil- 
lings and threepence 

The local police- 
man, who had 
watched the three 
transact ions , now 
stepped up. 

" Price of those 
rugs seems to be 
going down/ 1 he said, ' You've 
only one left. What will you charge 
me for it ? " 

" Four shillings," said Josh. 

'* Then you can keep it," said the 
disgusted policeman, ik Why cant 
you treat me fairly ? " 

" I am the fairest man in the 
market/' said Josh, " My motto is 
to serve all alike, I make the same 
profit out of every customer, whatever the 
customer buys, much or little. 31 

How many rugs had Josh to sell ? 

<( Never before did I produce a play on 
April ist," said the manager, " and I never 
will again. It's unlucky. I thought that 
piece would carry us right through to the 
autumn, and we've only had twenty-eight 
performances out of it." 

" How often a week did you show ? " asked 
the actor, 

" Six evenings and Wednesday and Satur- 
day afternoons. We closed on Good Friday 
and the Saturday following. We slipped in 
an extra matin&e on Bank Holiday , but the 
end was in sight even then, and next Monday 
we begun our last six performances." 

What day of the month was Easter Sunday 
that year, and what day of the week was 
March 3rd ? 

41 'you can keep it/ said the disgusted 
poucetman. * why can't you treat mr 


When young Mr. 
Woodhead took to 
gardening, one of 
the first things he 
did was to mix up 
a canful of weed- 

The directions 

said : "Use one 

part of this solution 

to three 

parts of 


Mr. Wood- 
head, being 
what he was, 
read these 
d ir actions, 
procured an 
old break- 
fast-cup. and 
poured one 
cup of water and three cups of the solution 
into the can. 

Then he discovered his mistake. il Got 
that just wrong/' lie said. " However, it is 
easy put right. It should have been three 
parts of water. All I have got to do is to 
add two more cups of water." This he did. 

Hr then adtk-d one cup of Milution and ihrce 
cups of water quite correctly. 

And then the can began to leak, M Golly ! " 
he said. " If I had known I wouldn't have 
stood it on the lawn." He got another can 
and transferred the mixture to it, but one- 
fifteenth of it had run away and was lost. 

There was still room in the can, and he 
now added one cup of solution and (by 
inadvertence) foi cups of water. He 
thought he had now got as much as he 
wanted. There was, in fact, precisely one 
gallon of the mixture. 

How much did his breakfast- 
cup hold, and how did his mix- 
ture differ from what was required 
by the directions ? 

The governess gave the two 
little girls this sum to do : Multi- 
ply £1 is. ijd ; by 36. 

The first little girl multiplied 
by nine and then multiplied the 
result by four. Her answer was 

The second little girl multi- 
plied first by four and then by 
nine. Her answer was also cor- 
rect. The governess gave both 


' A 1'1.AY ON APRIL 1ST,' SAID THEU ££ "";*" ^"^ »"' 

jiManages " urUQttnagrralthe same marks 




Given that the second child could state 
her reason for her working, why was the 
governess wrong ? 

" This picture, loin, by Sfin^ 
just fills that bare space on the 
wall/' said the Enthusiast. 

11 It is not a picture — it is 
an etching/* said the Pedant. 
"And the actual etched surface 
is only 4iin, by 3m. What you 
mean is, that the picture-frame 
fills the space." 

11 Got you ! " exclaimed the 
Enthusiast. " The picture-frame, 
being only ^iru broad, cannot 
cover a surface 10 in, by 8 Jin. It 
only covers the exterior of it. 
Within the picture- frame is a gilt slip f having 
a visible breadth of Jin., and inside that again 
is the white mount before you come to the 
etching, Now, then, how much surface is 
covered by the % ? isible white mount ? ?1 

The Pedant did a few figures on his shirt- 
ciff for five seconds. 

u You should never frame a decent etching 
close up like that/ 7 l& said, iS You should 
leave a margin to show the paper on which 
it is produced and the signature. However, 
as you have chosen to do it that way, and since 
you ask me, the visible superficies of the 
white mount is 48 IT lf ST square inches/' 

" By Jove j that's smart ! " said the Enthu- 
siast. " What a head you must have I I 
coutd never have done it in the time/' 

As a matter of fact, the Pedant had not 
done it. He had merely marie a wild shot at 
it, knowing that the poor Enthusiast would 

be deceived. The 
Pedants wild shot 

By how 
much was it 
^\ wrong ? 

k B Y JOVE, 

that's smart ! ' 


haves 1 " n\< 

WRONG ? " 

frank ley was very pleased with his new 
clock, which could be locked up so that you 
could not get at the hands or the regulator. 
You could wind it up with a different key, 
but that was all you could do. 

Crankley put the regulator to S, and found 
that the clock lost five and a half minutes 
every twenty-four hours, H? then put the 
regulator at F, and found that the clock 
gained three and a quarter minutes every 
twenty-four hours. 

" Now I can work out at what point be- 
tween S and F I should put the regulator," 
hr said, and at twelve noon set the hands 
correctly and moved the regulator, as he 
belie ved ; to the required point. But he had 
made j mistake, and put the regulator just 
as near to S as it should have l>een to F. 
He then locked the clock, dropped the key 
and lost it, and realized his mistake. But 
he kept the clock wound and hoped for 
the best- 
He found the key at twelve noon, though 
it was nine by his clock- How long had the 
key been lost ? 

(Solutions next month.) 

Answers to Last Month's "Quaint 

1. Half a pint of distilled waier weighs iooz. Using 
tlif clasp a< 11 weight ^ioz.), w eigh fjo*. °* ttu - 
I'sing I he water as a weight; take icoz. from ilie 
130C leaving 302. of tea. Vfting the 307,. of tea as a 
weight wei^iti three further ounces of tea, and put the 
bar. thus obtained aside on a sheet of paper. Using 
the waier a* a weight, wei^li 100?. of tca T and at id 
them to the 6o*. already on the paper. (The operation 
can k- 1 ict formed in more than one way.) 

2. Three o'clock. 

4 + Wi^k' ch\\Zc™iu*r t\um 1 seven" chair 


By E NESBIT. Illustrated by H. R, Millar. 

T is hardly possible to imagine 
a situatior less attractive 
than that of Mavis and 
Francis. Even the position 
of the mermaid curled up in 
a dry barrow and far from 
her native element was not 
exactly luxurious. Still, she was no worse 
off than she had been when the lariat first 
curled itself about her fishy extremity, But 
the children ! They had braved the terrors 
of night in an adventure of singular courage 
and daring. They had carried out their 
desperate enterprise. The mermaid was 
rescuedj success seemed near — no farther off 
than the sea, indeed, and that, in point of 
fact, was about a quarter of a mile away. 
To be within a quarter of a mile of achieve- 

I *oogle 

ment, and then to have the cup of victory 
dashed from your lips, the crown of victory 
torn from vour biOw by — the police! 

It was indeed hard. And what was more, 
it was dangerous. 

" We shall pass the night in the cells," 
thought Mavis, in agony , cl and whatever will 
mother do when she finds we're gone ? Pl 

In her mind the * l cells " were underground 
dungeons, dark, damp, and vaulted, where 
toads and lizards crawled, and no daylight 
ever penetrated. That is how dungeons are 
described in books about the Inquisition, 

A sudden hand had shot out from a bush 
and caught Francis by the arm, and when he 
said, li What is it ? ,J the answer was, " The 
police! 5 ; 

A stricken silence followed. The mouth 
of Francis fejftj ^TBf ai^t^PiS just as if he had 





arm/' said Mavis. " We 

Really we won't." 
said the mermaid. " You 

been eating cracknels, he explained after- 
wards, and he had to swallow nothing 
before he could say : — 

" What for ? " 

" Let go his 
won't run away. 

"You can't/ 
can't leave me" 

" Leave go/' said Francis, wriggling. 

And then suddenly Mavis . made a dart 
at the clutching hand and caught it by the 
wrist, and whispered savagely : — 

" It's not a policeman at all. Come out of 
that bush — come out," and dragged. And 
something did come out of the bush, some- 
thing that certainly was not a policeman. 
It was small and thin, whereas policemen are 
almost always tall and stout. It did not 
wear the blue coat our Roberts wear, but 
velvfceen trousers and a tweed jacket. It 
wa^ in fact, a very small boy. 

Francis broke into a cackle of relief. 

" You little— animal ! " he said. " What a 
fright you gave me!" 

" Animal yourself, if you come to that, 
let alone her and her tail," the boy answered, 
and Mavis thought his voice didn't sound 
unfriendly. " My ! but I did take a rise out 
of you that time, eh ? Ain't she bit you yet, 
nor yet strook you with that there mackerel- 
end of hers ? " 

And then they recognized him. It was the 
little spangled boy. Only now, of course, 
being off duty, he was no more spangled than 
you and I are. 

" Whatever did you do it for ? " Mavis 
asked, crossly. " It was horrid of you." 

" It wasn't only just a lark," said the boy. 
" I cut round and listened this afternoon 
when you was jawing, and I thought why not 
be in it. Only I do sleep that heavy, what 
with the riding and the tumbling, and all. 
So I didn't wake till you'd got her out, and 
then I cut u * along ahind the hedge to be 
beforehand w ch you. And I was. It was 
a fair cop, matey, eh ? " 

" What are you going to do about it ? " 
Francis asked, flatly. " Tell your father ? " 

But Mavis reflected that he didn't seem to 
have told his father yet, and perhaps wouldn't. 

" Ain't got no father," said the spangled 
boy, " nor yet mother." 

" If you are rested enough you'd better 
go on," said the mermaid. u I'm getting 
dry through." 

And Mavis understood that to her that was 
as bad as getting wet through would be 
to us. 

" I'm so sorry," she said, gently, " but " 

" I must say I think it's very inconsiderate 
of you to keep me all this time in the dry," 
the jnermaid went on. " I really should have 
thought even you " 

But Francis interrupted her. 

" What are you going to do ? " he asked 
the spangled boy. And that surprising child 
answered, spitting on his hands and rubbing 
them : — 

" Do ? Why, give a 'and with the barrer." 

The mermaid put out a white arm and- 
touched his. 

" You are a hero," she said. " I can 
recognize true nobility even under a once 
spangled exterior. You may kiss my hand." 

" Well, of all the " said Francis. 

" Shall I ? " the boy asked, more of himself 
than of the others. 

" Do," Mavis whispered. " And try to 
keep her in a good temper." 

So the spangled boy kissed the still dampish 
hand of the lady from the sea, took the handles 
of the barrow, and off they all went. 

Mavis and Francis were too thankful for 
this unexpected help to ask any questions, 
though they could not help wondering exactly 
what it felt like to be a boy who did not mind 
stealing his own circus's mermaid. It was 
the boy himself who offered, at the next rest- 
halt, an explanation. 

" You see," he said, " it's like this here. 
This party in the barrer— — " 

" I know you don't mean it disrespectfully," 
said the mermaid, sweetly, " but not party, 
and not a barrow." 

" Lady," suggested Mavis. 

" This lydy in the chariot, she's been kid- 
napped. That's how I look at it. Same as 
what I was." 

This was romance indeed, and Mavis 
recognized it, and said : — 

" You kidnapped ? I say ! " 

" Yus," said Spangles. " When I was a 
baby kid. Old Mother Romaine told me, 
just afore she was took all down one side, 
and never spoke no more." 

" But why ? " Mavis asked. " I never 
could understand in the books why gipsies 
kidnapped babies. They always seem to 
have so many of their own — far, far more 
than anyone could possibly want." 

" Yes, indeed," said the mermaid. " They 
prodded at me with sticks — a multitude of 

4i It wasn't kids as was wanted," said the 
boy. " It was revenge. That's what Mother 
Romaine said. My father, he was a sort of 
beak, and he give George Lee eighteen months 

fol URP?EfefV'Wl(!M,¥ they took £i»- 



the church bells was ringing like mad, and 
George as he was being took said, * What's 
all that row ? It ain't Sunday/ And then 
they tells him as how the bells was ringing 
cause him that was the beak— my father, 
you know — he'd got a son and heir, and that 
was me* You wouldn't think it to look at 
me/ i he added, spitting pensively, and taking 
up the barrow handles, " But I'm a son and 

M And then what happened ? " Mavis asked, 
as they trudged on, 

M Oh, George, he done his time, and I was 

u except that I got one of the shoes. Old 
Mother Romaine 'ad kep' it, and a little 
shirt like a lady's handkercher, with 4 R,V/ 
on it in needlework* She didn't even tell 
me what part of the country my dad was 
beak in. Said she'd tell me next day. An* 
then there wasn't no next day for her — not 
for telling things in, there wasn't." 
He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, 
" She warn't half a bad sort/' he explained. 
u Don't cry/* said Mavis, uneasily. 
" Cry ? Me ? " he answered, scornfully. 
" IVe got a cold in me 'ead. You oughter 

know the difference 
between cold in the 
head and snivelling* 
You been to school, 
I lay. They might 

taught you 


a kiddie then — year and a half old, all lace 
and ribbons and blue shoes made of glove 
stuff t and George pinched me, and it makes 
me breff short wheeling and talking/' 

11 Pause and restj my spangled friend," said 
the mermaid, in a voice of honey. u Continue 
your thrilling narrative." 

u There ain't no more to it/' said the boy, 

wonder the 
didn't take 
the shoe and 
the shirt 
away from 

" Nobody 

know'd I'd 

got it. I 

always kep' 

it inside my 

shirt, tird 

round in a 

bit of paper, 

and when I 

put on me 

tights I used 

to hide it. 

Vm agoing to take the road one 

of these days and find out who 

it was lost a kid with blue shoes 

un<l shirt nine years come April." 

1 Then voir re ten and a 

half?" saidMav'\ 

And the boy answered adm /ingly :— 

" How do you do it in your head so quick, 

miss? Yes, that's what I am/* 

Here the wheelbarrow resumed its rather 
bumpety progress, arfd nothing more could 
be said till the next stoppage, which was 
at that spot where the sea-front road 
swings round and down, and glides into 
the beach so gently that you can hardly tell 
where one begins and the other ends. It 
was much lighter there than up on the waste 
space. The moon was just breaking through 
a fluffy white cloud, and cast a trembling 
sort oE reflection on the sea. As they came 
down the ^S'&fl 1 MSS&s were needed to 




steady the barrow, because as soon as she 
saw the sea the mermaid began to jump up 
and down like a small child at a Christmas- 

" Oh, look ! " she cried. " Isn't it beau- 
tiful ? Isn't it the only home in the world ? " 

" Not quite/' said the boy. 

" Ah ! " said the lady in the barrow. 
" Of course, you're heir to one of the — what 
is it ? " 

" Stately homes of England. How beau- 
tiful they stand," said Mavis. 

" Yes," said the lady. " I knew by instinct 
that he was of noble birth." 

** I bid you take care of the brat," said he, 
u For he comes of a noble race," 

Francis hummed. He was feeling a little 
cross and sore. He and Mavis had had all 
the anxious trouble of the adventure, and 
now the spangled boy was the only one the 
mermaid was nice to. It was certainly 

" But your stately home would not do for 
me at all," she went on. " My home is in 
caves of coral and pearl — so cosy and delight- 
ful and wet. Now, can you push the chariot 
to the water's edge, or will you carry me?" 

" Not much we won't," the spangled boy 
answered, firmly. " We'll push you as far 
as we can, and then you'll have to wriggle." 

" I will do whatever you suggest," she said, 
amiably. " But what is this wriggle of which 
you speak ? " 

" Like a worm," said Francis. 

" Or an eel," said Mavis. 

" Nasty low things," said the mermaid, 
and the children never knew whether she 
meant the worm and the eel, or the girl and 
the boy. 

" Now, then, all together," said the 
spangled child. And the barrow bumped 
down to the very edge of the rocks. And 
at the very edge its wheel caught in a chink, 
and the barrow went sideways. Nobody 
could help it, but the mermaid was tumbled 
out of her chariot on to the seaweed. 

The seaweed was full and cushiony and 
soft, and she was not hurt at all, but she was 
very angry. 

" You have been to school," she said, 
" as my noble preserver reminds you. You 
might have learned how not to upset chariots." 

" It's we who are your preservers," Francis 
couldn't help saying. 

" Of course you are," she said, coolly. 
" Plain preservers, not noble ones. But I 
forgive you. You can't help being common 
and clumsy. I suppose it's your nature — 
just as it's his to be " 

" Good-bye," said Francis, 

" Not at all," said the lady. " You must 
come with me in case there are any places 
where I can't exercise the elegant and vermi- 
form accomplishment you spoke about. Now, 
one on each side and one behind, and don't 
walk on my tail. You can't think how annoy- 
ing it is to have your tail walked on." 

"Oh, can't I?" said Mavis. "I'll tell 
you something. My mother has a tail, too." 

" I say I " said Francis. 

But the spangled child understood. 

" She don't wear it every day, though," 
he said, and Mavis is almost sure that he 
winked, only it is so difficult to be sure about 
winks in the starlight. 

" Your mother must be better born than 
I supposed," said the mermaid. " Are you 
quite sure about the tail ? " 

" I've trodden on it often," said Mavis, 
and then Francis saw. 

Wriggling and sliding and pushing herself 
along by her hands, and helped now and then 
by the hands of the others, the mermaid was 
at last got to the edge of the water. 

" How glorious ! In a moment I shall be 
quite wet," she cried. 

In a moment everyone else was quite wet 
also. For with a movement that was some- 
thing between a squirm and a jump she 
dropped from the edge with a splashing flop, 
and disappeared entirely. 

The three children looked at each other. 

"Well!" said Mavis. 

" I do think she's ungrateful," said Francis. 

" What did you expect ? " asked the 
spangled child. 

They were all wet through. It was very 
late, they were very tired, and the clouds 
were putting the moon to bed in a very great 
hurry. The mermaid was gone ; the whole 
adventure was ended. 

There was nothing to do but to go home 
and go to sleep, knowing that when they 
woke the next morning it would be to a day 
in the course of which they would have to 
explain their wet clothes to their parents. 

" Even you'll have to do that," Mavis 
reminded the spangled boy. 

He received her remark in what they 
afterwards remembered to have been a 
curiously deep silence. 

" I don't know how on earth we are to 
explain," said Francis. " I really don't. 
Come on, let's get home. No more adven- 
tures for rne, thank you. Bernard knew what 
he ^ffll^aiking abouflltHIGAN — 



Mavis, very 
tired indeed, 

They had got 
over the beach 
by this time, 
recovered the 
and trundled it 
up it n d along 
the road- At the 
corner the 
spangled boy 
suddenly saidr— 

shfc droh'kd from j hk edeik with a splashing plop, 
and dtsap[m:aked entirely, 11 

11 Well, then, so long, old sports/' and 
vanished down a side lane. 

The other two went on together with the 
wheelbarrow, which, I may remind you, was 
as wet as any of them. 

They went along by the hedge and the 
mill and up to the house. 

Suddenly Mavis clutched at her brother's 

" There's a light/' she said, 
" in the house." 

There certainly was, and 
the children experienced that 
terrible empty sensation only 
too well known to all of us— the 
feeling of the utterly found -out* 
They could not be sure which 
window it was, but it was 
a downstairs window partly 
screened by ivy. A faint hope 
still buoyed up Francis of get- 
ting up to bed unnoticed by 
whoever it was that had the 
light, and he and his sister 
crept round to the window out 
of which they had crept — such 
a very long time ago it seemed. 
The window was shut* 
Francis suggested hiding in the mill and 
trying to creep in unobserved later on, but r 
Mavis said : — 

" No, I'm too tired for anything. I'm too 
tired to live. I think. Let's go in and get 
it over, and then we can go to bed and sleep 
and sleep and sleep " 

So they went and peeped in at the kitchen 
window, and there was no one but Mrs. 




Pearce, and she had a fire lighted, and was 
putting a big pot on it. 

The children went to the back door and 
opened it. 

" You're early, for sure/' said Mrs* Pearce, 
not turning. 

This seemed a bitter sarcasm. It was too 
much* Mavis answered it with a sob, and 
at that Mrs. Pearce turned very quickly* 

11 What to gracious ! " she said. " What- 
ever to gracious is the matter ? WhereVe 
you been ? " She took Mavis by the shoulder, 
" Why j you Ye all sopping wet. You naughty , 
naughty little gell^ you. Wait till I tell your 

ma You've been shrimping, I lay, or 

trying to — never asking when the tide was 
right- And not a shrimp to show for it, I 
know, with the tide where it is* You wait 
till we hear what your ma's got to say about 
it And look at my clean flags, and you 
dripping all over J em like a fortnight's wash 
in wet weather." 

Mavis twisted a little in Mrs. Pearee's 

"Oh, don't scold 
uSj dear Mrs. 
Pearce," she said, 
putting a wet arm 
up towards Mrs, 
Pearce's neck, 
u We are so miser- 

" And so you 
deserve to be," 
said Mrs. Pearce, 
smartly. " Here, 
young chap, you 
go into the wash- 
house and get 
them things off, 
and drop them 
outside the door, 
and have a good 
rub with the jack- 
towel, and little 
miss can undress 
by the fire and put 
hern in this clean 
pail, and I'll pop 
up soft -like so as 
your ma don't 
hear, and bring 
you down some- 
thing dry." 

A gleam of hope 
fell across the chil- 
dren's hearts, a 
gleam wild and 
watery as that 

which the moonlight had cast across the sea 
into which the mermaid had disappeared. 
Perhaps after all Mrs- Pearce wasn't going 
to tell mother. If she was, why should she 
pop up soft-like ? Perhaps she would keep 
their secret. Perhaps she would dry their 
clothes, Perhaps after all that impossible 
explanation would never have to be given. 

The kitchen was a pleasant place, with 
bright brasses and shining crockery, and a 
round table with a clean cloth and blue and 
white tea-cups on it. 

Mrs. Pearce came down with their night- 
gowns and the warm dressing-gowns that 
Aunt Enid had put in, in spite of their 
expressed wishes. How glad they were of 
them now ! 

" There, that's a bit more like," said Mrs. 
Pearce, Lt Here, don't look as if I was going 
to eat you j you little Peter Grievouses. I'M 
hot up some milk, and here's a morsel of 
bread and dripping to keep the cold out. 
Lucky for you I was up getting the boys' 
breakfast ready. The boats ? ll 
be in directly. The boys will 
laugh when 1 tell them." 
" Oh, don't tell/' said Mavis. 

Original from 

41 * WHAT TO 

*}&Ai IOUS !' SUIv SAID 



MATTER? 1 " 



u Don't, please don't. Please, please 

" Well, I like that," said Mrs. Pearce, 
pouring herself some tea from a pot which 
the children learned later stood on the hob 
all day and most of the night. " It's the 
funniest piece I've heard this many a day. 
Shrimping at high tide." 

" I thought," said Mavis, " perhaps you'd 
forgive us, and dry our clothes, and not tell 

" Oh, you did, did you ? " said Mrs. Pearce. 
" Anything else ? " 

" No, nothing else, thank you," said Mavis. 
" Only I want to say thank you for being so 
kind, and please we haven't done any harm 
to the barrow. But I'm afraid it's rather 
wet, and we oughtn't to have taken it without 
asking, I know. But you were in bed, 
and " 

" The barrow ? " Mrs. Pearce repeated. 
" That great hulking barrow — you took the 
barrow to bring the shrimps home in ? No, 
I can't keep it to myself — that I really can't." 

She lay back in the arm-chair and shook 
with silent laughter. 

The children looked at each other. It is 
not pleasant to be laughed at, especially for 
something you have never done, but they 
both felt that Mrs. Pearce would have laughed 
quite as much, or even more, if they had told 
her what it really was they had wanted the 
barrow for. 

" Oh, don't gO t on laughing," said Mavis, 
creeping close to' Mrs. Pearce, " though you 
are a ducky darling not to be cross any more. 
And you won't tell, will you ? " 

" Ah, well, I'll let you off this time. But 
you'll promise faithful never to do it again, 
now, won't you ? " 

" We faithfully won't, ever," said both 
children, earnestly. 

" Then off you go to your beds, an' I'll 
dry the things when your ma's out, an' 
I'll press 'em to-morrow morning while I'm 
waiting for the boys to come in." 

" You are an angel," said Mavis, embracing 

" More than you are, then, you young 
limbs," said Mrs. Pearce, returning the 
embrace. " Now, off you go, and get what 
sleep you can." 

It was with a feeling that Fate had not 
after all been so very harsh with them that 
Mavis and Francis came down to a very late 

" Your ma and pa's gone off on their 
bikes," said Mrs. Pearce, bringing in the 
eggs and bacon, " and won't be backi till 

Digitized by L^OOglC 

dinner. So I framed to let you have your 
sleep out. The little 'uns had their breakfast 
three hours ago, and are out on the sands. 
I told them to let you sleep, though I know 
they wanted to hear how many shrimps you 
caught. I lay they expected a barrowful, 
same as what you did." 

" How did you know they knew we'd been 
out?" Francis asked. 

" Oh, the way they was being secret in 
corners and looking the old barrow all over 
was enough to make a cat laugh. Hurry up, 
now. I've got the washing-up to do, and 
your things is well-nigh dry." 
- " You are a darling," said Mavis. " Sup- 
pose you'd been different, whatever would 
have become of us ? " 

"You'd 'a' got your deserts — bed and 
bread and water, instead of this nice egg and 
bacon and the sands to play on. So now you 
know," said Mrs. Pearce. 

On the sands they found Kathleen and 
Bernard, and it really now, in the bright, 
warm sunshine, seemed almost worth while 
to have gone through last night's adventures 
if only for the pleasure of telling the tale of 
them to the two who had been safe and warm 
and dry in bed all the time. 

" Though really," said Mavis, when her 
tale was told, " sitting here and seeing the 
tents and the children digging and the ladies 
knitting and the gentlemen smoking and 
throwing stones, it does hardly seem as 
though there could be any magic. And yet, 
you know, there was." 

" It's like I told you about radium and 
things," said Bernard. " Things aren't magic 
because they haven't been found out yet. 
There's always been mermaids, of course, 
only people didn't know it." 

" But she talks," said Francis. 

" Why not ? " asked Bernard, placidly. 
" Even parrots do that." 

" But she talks English," Mavis urged. 

" Well," said Bernard, unmoved, " what 
would you have had her talk ? " 

And so, in pretty sunshine, between blue 
sky and gold sands, the adventure of the 
mermaid seemed to come to an end — to be 
now only a tale that is told. And when the 
four went slowly home to dinner, all were, 
I think, a little sad that this should be so. 

" Let's go round and have a look at the 
empty barrow," Mavis said. " It'll bring it 
all back to us, and remind us of what was in 
it, like ladies' gloves and troubadours." 

The barrow was where they had left it, 
but it was P^nfflT^t^Q n ^\ very dirty piece 




of folded paper lay In it, addressed in pen- 
cilled and uncertain characters, " To France, 
To be opened/* 
He opened it, and read aloud : — 
11 I went back f and she came back, and 
she wants you to come back at ded of nite. — 
Rube,' 1 

i£ Well, I shaVt go/ 1 said Francis. 

u But you must manage it somehow/ 1 
said Kathleen. " You can't let it drop like 
this. I shaVt believe it was magic at all, 
if you do." 

"If you were us you'd have had enough 
of magic/ 1 said Francis. " Why don't you 
go yourselves — you and Bernard ? " 

" Vvt a good mind to/' said Bernard, 


A voice from the bush by the gate made 
them all start. 

bL Don't let on you see me/' said the 
spangled boy, putting his head out cautiously. 

u You seem very fond of hiding in bushes/' 
said Francis, 

11 I am/' said the boy, briefly. " Ain't 
you going — to see her again, I mean ? " 

" No/' said Francis, " I've had enough 
dead of night to last me a long time/' 

" Vou a-going, miss ? " the boy asked. 
" No ? You are a halMivered crew. It'll 
be only trie, I suppose." 

14 You're going, then ? " 

'Well/' said the boy/ 4 what do you think ? 

*' I should go if I were you/' said Bernard, 

*' No , you wouldn't, not if you were me/ 1 
said Francis. " You don't know how dis- 
agreeable she was. I'm fed up with her. 
And, besides, we simply cant get out at dead 
of night now, Mrs, Pearce'll be on the look- 
out. No, it's no go." 

unexpectedly, u Only not in the middle of 
the night, because of my being certain to 
drop my boots. Would you come, Cathay ? " 

" You know I wanted to before/' said 
Kathleen, reproachfully. 

" But how ? " the others asked. 

" Oh," said Bernard, " we must think about 
that. 1 say, you chap, we must get to our 
dinners. Will you be here after ? " 

" Yes, I ain't going to move from here. 
You might bring me a bit of grub with you. 
I ain't had a bite since yesterday tea-time." 

" I say ! " said Francis, kindly. " Did 
they stop your grub to punish vou for getting 

u They didn't know nothing about my get- 
ting wet/' he said. " I didn't never go back 
to the tents, I've cut my lucky, I 'ave ; 
'ooked it, skedaddled , done a bunk, run 

** And where arc you going ? " 

" / dunno/* said the spangled boy, "Tm 
running from, not to," 

(ft be continued.) Origina | from 


A. Compendium or Snort Articles. 

The Mysterious Spiritualistic Seance. 

A mystery, which has baffled some of the greatest scientists of the day, exposed and fully explained for 

the first time by A, D. Ross, 

around the lady in the manner now about to 
be described, ultimately securely bolting and 
locking her therein, so that there is absolutely 
no possibility of passing anything in to or out 
from her. 

The second illustration shows that the cabinet 
is formed of four box -like parts, each eighteen 
inches square and fifteen inches deep. A 
Lias a solid bottom and rests on four six-inch 
legs. B and C have no top or bottom ; 
while D has a solid top. Each section has a 
triangular piece of wood glued into each corner, 
their object being to strengthen the sections, 
and also to act as a guide and hold to the four 
iron rods that bolt the sections together, each 
piece of wood having a hole bored through it 
to permit the passage of the rods. Fig. i 
shows sections A, B, and C, with the securing 
bolts in position and the medium inside. Fig. 2 
shows the cabinet finished and securely bolted 
down with the winged nuts at the top. These 
nuts may be sealed over in any way that suggests 
itself to the audience. 

The assem- 
bled guests 
tin,'!] |.p:h\v1 
to handcuff 
t h e m s e 1 ves 
together and 
form a circle 
round the 
cabinet, so 
1 1 1 = 1 1 it is quite 

i|tl|iuv>;blL? hi 

enter or leave 
ro Afco t ] ie circle 

without some 

of the 
assembly being ac- 
quainted with the 
fact. The lights are 
then tut out, and 
the spirit manifesta- 
tions take place. For 
instance, a member 
of the company may 
desire a certain tune 
played on the violin, 
and immediately it 
is responded to on 
the violin inside the 
circle. On the lights 
being again turned 
up the cabinet is 
found to be quite 
intact, with the 
medium still inside. 
Another test is then 
desired , and a piano 
brought into the 
circle is tnenrRfp^i-^l from the cash rr, 









I^HE remarkable cabinet which plays such a lead- 
ing part in the seance I am about to describe 
was for many years used by a well-known illusionist 
as part of his programme, and though the seance has 
been attended by nearly all the leading members of 
the magical profession and spiritualistic body, its 
secret absolutely baffled them, and they gave it up 
as inscrutable. The writer has m his possession 
a letter from Victor Hugo* in which this great and 
I eveh headed man goes so far as to say that in his 
opinion the matter deserves the attention of scientists. 
So easily are great men deceived. The description 
of the seance is as follows :■ — 

The company having assembled in a suitable room, 
they are introduced to the medium, and are then shown 
the parts of a cabinet in which the medium is to be 
securely incarcerated. An examination of the parts 
of the cabinet proves it to be a perfectly straight- 
forward piece of the cabinet -maker's art, everything 
about it being of a most substantial and solid character. 
A violin, pianoforte, bell, or such other articles as may 
be decided upon, are also included in the inspection. 
The company then proceed to build up the cabinet 

Digitized by dOOQlC 




5„ S,>{u*S I HP, JOINT {B— ll) AT ON E EHi> ( WHJLII 

playing any air re- 
quested by anyone 
present* Of course, 
any number qf tests 
may be arranged, 
and in every case 
the medium readily 
accomplishes tliem. 
As a finak the usual 
spirit rappings take 
place, when the 
lights are turned up, 
and to the surprise of everybody the lady acting as 
the medium, who was 50 securely locked in the cabinet, 
is now found to be outside it ; standing in the circle. 
Yet on close and minute examination the cabinet is 
found to be quite secure and intact, and all locks 
and bo] If sea!ed as left by the committee of 

The explanation and secret of the whole thing is 
in the very simple yet ingenious locking arrangement 
for the cabinet itself is a perfectly solid and well- 
made piece of cahinet work without any fake or trickery 
about it« 

It lies in the construction of the simple -looking 
iron rods which bolt the cabinet together. These 
rods appear to be quite ordinary, and may be subjected 
to the closest scrutiny without fear of their secret 
being divulged. Fig. 4 shows the rods screwed at 
both ends, A and I* ? for about an inch and a half to 
receive the lacking -nuts, At one end, however, 
about an inch and a quarter in from the end (see 
Fig- 5} 7 and hidden by the threads of the screw* there 

1> 11 in:: his: 


is a joint. The main 
rod at this end is 
bored for about fif- 
teen inches j the holt 
thus drilled being 
fitted with a rod hav- 
ing at one end the 
one and a quarter 
Indies of threaded 
rod of the same 
diameter as the 
main rod, and on 
the other end a small catch which on turning 
engages with a stud ? C, and so securely locks the 
two portions together, making to all appearances 
a solid rod (see Fig. 6), When the medium is 
fastened inside she takes with her, hidden under 
her skirt, two smill steel stays about twelve inches 
long, and a finely-made pair of tongs wherewith to 
rrrip the rods between the cracks of the sections. When 
the whole thing has been secured, she can, by gripping 
the rods m turn by the tongs, anil giving each one a 
half turn t unlock the inner rod from the stud L\ when 
the cabinet, or such sections as she desires, may be 
pushed up, and by the insertion of the two steel stays 
in her possession kept up in position to enable her 
to gH out of the cabinet (see Fig, 3). Then, of course , 
the plaving of the violin or other manifestations is 
quite simple. 

In e\ posing this particular stance the writer posi- 
tively asserts that all spiritualistic manifestations 
with which he is acquainted (and they are many) 
are the result of trickerv. 

Stamp Decoration as a Fine Art. 

WHAT are probably the most elaborate examples pieces of stamps were used, and the time taken 
of decorative work ever carried out en- in collecting the stamps, which were the cleanest 
tirely with postage stamps are shown in the accom- picked from more than four hundred thousandj was 
panying photograph. As will be seen, an entire over four years, 
bedroom suite is 
most tastefully on la- 
mented with postage - 
stamp* — all of them, 
by the way, being 
those of the United 
States -and the whole 
of the work has l)een 
done bv one man* 
M r. R""o bert B. 
Blanker], of Philadel- 
phia. He commenced 
it when only fifteen 
years of age, and it 
was several years 
before it was com- 
pleted. The suite, 
which includes a full* 
size double bedstead, 
is ornamented with a 
great variety of 
pleasing designs, the 
chief charm of which 
— their colour — is, 
of course, not realized 
in our reproduction. 
In decora I i rig the bed 
alone in r e than 

Vuk xk.— 24. 

by Google 

Original from 


The Queerest Insect on 


AS an instance of what Mother Nature can do, in 
freakish mood, to puzzle the wits of the Nature k 
student, it would be hard to find a creature presenting < 
more curious features than the pepe-aweto. Hardly , 
surpassed in wonder, even by the platypus, Hipealis 
virescens (the pepe-aweto of the Maoris) sets us a 
problem in biology absolutely confounding jn its 
paradoxical contradiction. But it is as a link between 
the animal and vegetable kingdoms that this caterpillar- 
vegetable owes its chief and absorbing interest. , 

Let the reader imagine a sleek, white caterpillar, 
varying in length from three to four and a half inches, 
and a full half-inch in diameter. Add a healthy, 
green plant-stem that sprouts vigorously from the 
creature's neck, and one has a good picture of the 
pepe-aweto's appearance at an early stage of its 
existence. Is it insect or vegetable ? He would be a 
bold layman who should pronounce offhand. But let 
us follow this queer creature from its commencement. 

At the outset there is nothing that distinguishes the - 
pepe-aweto from other large caterpillars of the same 
family. Larva of the big purm-moth, it is hatched, 
one of a numerous family of brother and sister eggs, 
beneath the smooth bark of the puriri tree, and 
immediately after hatching proceeds to eat its way 
into the soft sap-wood of the tree, forming a deep, 
longitudinal tunnel beneath the bark. At the end of 
its tunnel, which often measures two feet in length, it 
scooi^s a cavity to form quite a sizable chamber. 
Here, secure from attack by insect-eating birds and 
marauding bush-rats, in the projjer sequence of events 
it should be content to await the chrysalis stage, to 
emerge finally in all the glory of a wide-winged, 
silver-grey moth. But at about the end of the sixth 
week there comes a change. A spirit of discontent 
comes o'er the scene of our caterpillar's life. What 
strange instinct is it that, singling one from out a 
numerous progeny, stirs in the insect's blood ? What 
whispers to it of the wider world beyond its tunnel 
walls ? What call of the Wanderlust urges revolt ? 
What counsels it at this period to throw aside destiny 
and embark on a career of adventure on its own account? 
For this is exactly what happens. Bidding farewell to 
stay-at-home brothers and sisters, our caterpillar creeps 
from its snug quarters, crawls down the tree-trunk, 
and away across the forest floor to see the world. 

Thus far it has been all plain sailing. The creature's 
life has been open to the observer. When next we come 
across it, how- 
ever, our cater- 
pillar, we find, 
has struck up 
an acquaint- 
ance with a 
mauvais sujel 
in the shape 
of a vegetable 
fungus - spore. 


lized by GOO^IC 

The undesirable has been literally 
picked up, for it is whilst burrowing 
in the mould of the dark places of 
the forest that the spore lodges on 
the caterpillar's neck, and, clamping 
itself firmly with hook-like tentacles 
between the head and the first ring- 
like fold of the body, refuses to be 
got rid of. 

The fungus-spore — classified scien- 
tifically as Sphceria Robertsii — loses 
no time, but, germinating where it 
has lodged, pushes its roots into 
the body of its host, and at the 
same time sends forth a stem at 
right angles to the insect's neck. 

At the commencement of this 
sort of partnership existence, and 
until the plant-stem attains to a 
height of two or three inches, the 
presence of its parasitic guest 
apparently causes the caterpillar 
little inconvenience, and on dis 
turbing the soil around the tree- 
roots it may be found moving 
freely among the loose humus, 
bearing the budding plant-stem on 
its back. The respite is short, 
however. The young plant grows 
apace, and the caterpillar, giving 
up the battle, performs its own 
obsequies, burying itself to the 
depth of two or three inches at the 
root of a tree. 

From fhw time forth its body 
becomes an animal tuber to a 
vegetable growth. The plant de- 
velops with "a quite malign vitality, 
and, penetrating the soil above the 
insect's body, stands up to a height 
of ten' or twelve inches' above the 
ground. The mature plant, which 
resembles a diminutive bulrush, 
consists solely of a single stem, 
fleshy and of a pale green colour, 
without leaves, and capped by the 
brown felt-like head so familiar in 

On ripening, the head, or seed- 
pod, bursts open, scattering a host 
of fresh fungus-spores, to be again 
picked up by next season's genera- 
tion of caterpillars. The bursting 
of the pod marks the end. Plant 
and tuber both die, becoming dry 
and hard, with only a slight dimi- 
nution of living size, and our original 
caterpillar has become wood. 

During the process of growth the 
fine rootlets of the plant have 
interpenetrated the caterpillar's 
body, exactly filling it in every par- 
ticular, and, with no alteration of 
shape in the slightest degree, have 
substituted a vegetable for an animal 
substance. So delicately has this 
process been carried out that no 
structural change is observable. On 
cross- section under the microscope 
the alimentary canal and other 
organs of the caterpillar's body are 
shown with no trace of displace- 
ment vtatsipever. 



Egg- Shell Carving. 


SOME years ago you published some photographs 
of eggs curved by native craftsmen, and these 
coming into the hands of a dient of mine, Mr, 
Walter Fisher, a marble mason, 
lie conceived the idea of improv- 
ing on them, and so purchased 
an emu egg. The [peculiarity of 
this shell is that, pit hough com- 
paratively very thin and hard, the 
outer colour is dark g^een ; but as 
this is carved into it gradually 
goes lighter, passing through all the 
various digrees of shade to a verv 

pale sea- preen „ then to [it ire while, 
and finally to a rich sky blue, 

Oa the four sections you will 
note the remarkable e fleet which 
has been produced, although the 
four photographs very inadequately 
convev the natural rendering of ihi? 
colours, as In not the smallest 
instance has any colouring matter 
been used. 

The lake and sky are a rich blue, 
the latter being dotted with white, 
fleecy cloudy while the distant hills 
(No. i). of a faint whjty bluet are 
very effective against the grass in 
the mid -distance 

In Xo. 3 note the hunter on the bank— whose 
horse is feeding on the rich grass in the distance — 
stalking the emu, who, quite unsuspectingly, is 
drinking at the lake. Also his 
companion riding at full speed 
(No. 2 and No. i) to intercept 
the fleeing kangaroos with their 
pair of young ones (So. i and 
No + 4), arid observe the sur- 
prised look of the young one in 
No. 4. 

The entire egg is very artisti- 
cally finished and exceedingly well 

.\o. 2, 


w Google 

NO. 3. 

NO 4. 

executed, especially when one re* 
members that the shell is remark- 
ably bard, and at the same time 
verv thin — probably not one thirty - 
second of an inch thick — and that 
the col our , once cut through, 
ran not bit replaced, to say nothing 
of the constant danger of piercing 
through the shell and thereby spoil- 
ing the whole work. 

Hie size of the egg may be 
judged by the ordinary-sized egg- 
cup on which it stands, while it 
may be added that the whole of 
the' work was done with a fine 
Originwbfe^ltlflon's chisel. 



An Ancient Code of Health, 



\ FEW years ago a little book was sold in a Paris 
/\ auction -room which realized sixteen thousand 
francs. The bf>ok itself, " The Aphorisms of the 
School of Salerno," is not at all scarce, but this was 
the rare Elzevir edition, hence the very high price 
which it fetched. 

This remarkable work is interest- 
ing as a memento of the hygiene 
and medicine of the Middle Ages. 
It was composed in the Medical 
College of Salerno, which has existed 
since the time of Charlemagne. The 
college then formed part of the Bene- 
dictine convent of that town, and 
in succeeding years it attained a 
certain celebrity. It received official 
' statutes from King Robert of Sicily, 
and no one could practise medicine 
or assume the title of doctor without 
the approval of the professors of 
Salerno. The college— or school, as 
it was then called — was regarded as 
the model for all the Universities 
of the period, and its doctrines, 
founded on the precepts of Galen t 
were everywhere recognized. It is 
still known because of its famous 
Code of Health, which was compiled 
by the greatest doctors of the day, 
and which was for centuries the 
chief authority on things medical all over Europe. 

The first line of this curious code is a dedication 
to ** Angloru Regi," from which certain writers infer 
that it was compiled for one of the kings of England, 
after a consultation with the learned professors on the 
subject of the Royal health. It is not known which 
king is meant. Some give the date as about io66 f and 
suppose it refers to Edward the Confessor- The 
surmise may be correct, as Edward's delicate state of 
health was the despair of his physicians for some lime 
before he died* Others give it a later date, and say 
it was drawn up lor Robert of Normandy, eldest son 
of William the Conqueror, who was 
wounded in the Crusades during the 
Siege of Jerusalem. On his way 
back the Prince stopped at Salerno 
to consult the physicians there ; he 
recovered his health, and had so 
much confidence in the skill of his 
doctors that he desired ilienr to 
compose him a set of rules to enable 
him, as far as possible* to avert the 
different diseases to which the human 
body is exposed. 

The result was a collective Latin 
poem embodying most of the medical 
science which was at thai time 
known* It was written by the most 
noted professors of the school, pro- 
bably abou 1 1 1 ie ye* i r 1 j oo . Th e names 
of the authors are unknown, though 
it has been attributed to several of 
the doctors in succession ; among 
others, Novoforo, Amauld de Vfl- 
leneuve, and more particularly to 
Jean de Milan. Originally the poem 


Antrim ArmUt mv'nkfii^Mi? 

H^tefofiR i*t i qui lMi.f-Tdt:i3nHm lnfjW^L 

JB*rT'ij«t/*c- MO*, pn 3**rF£* 

De Election* mcLonim StapUcftiVb 

D. Pfaflw 1 ' Mclm^tk, 
Dc ui&iufrlttbru ratioDcpritiftroninl 

consisted of a little over three hundred lines, but they 
have been added to for purposes of ex p] an il ion or 
contradiction, till at the present time they exceed 
three thousand. 
Tfiese Aphorisms were to a certain extent the germ 
of all the medical faculties of 
Europe. A large number of them 
are in clever couplets, easy to re- 
member, and each containing some 
wise precept* Some of them are 
not without charm and are singu- 
larly quaint. Many, especially those 
which refer to health, have passed 
into proverbs, and are still in daily 
use amongst us ; while others, with 
the progress of science, have fallen 
into disrepute. They treat of food 
and drink, sleep and exercise, and 
give rigorous instructions as to the 
importance of blood-letting. 

The work is divided into nine 

parts, but only the first and second 

are of interest- The first deals with 

hygiene, and from it most of our 

quotations are taken. The second 

teaches the value and uses of herbs 

in medicine, and is still an authority 

on that subject. As for the others, 

t-pjuic they have had their da\\ and axe 

seldom referred to or quoted. 

The poem commences with the dedication to the 

King. This is immediately followed by a few general 

directions in order to gain and retain health : 

11 Avoid all anxiety, Xever be angry. Eat little. 
Talte s exercise after meals. Never sleep in the 
daytime. 1 * 

General rules are also given regarding hygiene ; in 
the first place according to the seasons, then month 
by month. According to the doctrine of the School 
of Salerno, and which was practised by its professors:— 
" Spring is the moment for exercise and the moderate 
enjoyment of pleasure, and especially for bleeding, 

" In summer foot! and baths 
should be cold, and sobriety should 
be practised in all things. 

In an in i mi wine should be drunk 
in large quantities, to counteract the 
effects of fruit, which otherwise 
might produce painful maladies. 

k * Wittier is the season for the 
pleasures of the table* Salt meats 
should be eaten, for they incite a 
craving for cold drinks, which are 
beneficial for the health. Tonics also 
should be used in winter/ 1 

The early doctors, like the modem 
<nu">, m.'1 ^reat store on person*] 
cleanliness, which the professors of 
Salerno considered an absolute 

*' Wash the hands before eating. 

V\ r ash them also on leaving the table. 

Only by doing so can one retain 


^jUri^iPi^tESinVashmes of the eves 

UNIYERSffwMttart 1 -" 




The question of food is minutely examined ; the 
different kinds are passed in review, from bread to 
stone-fruit and nuts. In one part we read that nuts 
are not considered to be good for the stoma cli, though 
in another part w r e are told that bitter almonds aid 
digestion. The ancient custom of taking 
wine with peaches, and nuts with raisins, 
is referred to in the code* The doctors 
prescribe the flesh of young animals, 
but in the case of fish it is quite the con- 
trary ; fishes should be old* or, at any 
rate , they should have reached maturity, 
otherwise they are bad for the health. 

Numberless are the rules against excess 
in eating. Evidently the doctors were of 
the c pin ion of Galen, that it is not best 
to satisfy the appetite. 

" 4 Always leave the table hungry, 

" If you would Live long, put a check on all 

11 In order to enjoy life, set bounds to the appetite. 

l * To have a tranquil night, eat a light dinner. 

" After an egg drink a cup of wine* 

L " Wine soup satisfies hunger and brightens the 


The well-known distich — 

2 37 
In December, the veins 

bliAIV^ u^ WH1LH fcUlTKK 





After kmcheon sU nwhitr, 
A Tier dinner m-aik a mile, 

is among the precepts of the School of Salerno 
also is the one advocating the use of 
apples — 

Kar an apple smnfi Ej tad, 

And mfike ibe doctors beg ih*ir bread. 

After the food come the drinks, 
and we have the qualities and effects 
of certain among them : - 

"It is bad to drink cider and 
hydromel in June, for then they go 
to the head and render one stupid." 

The beer of the period made from 
oats is also said to have the same 
effect. The learned doctors agree 
with St. Timothy in the mailer of 
drinking wine : — 

" Wine maketh glad the heart*" 

In certain cases, however, water is 

"If the voice be hoarse, drink the 
wine the ducks drink/' 

But the most appalling thing is the incessant 
practice of blood-letting which the doctors prescribe, 
This most ancient, and at one time most popular, of 
medical operations was regarded as a remedy for every 
ailment. Though for many years it has fallen into 
disuse, the medical journals of America tell us that 
it is again to be considered a sovereign element in 
therapeutics, Be that as it may, on hygienic and pre- 
vent ive principles the lancet was held m high esteem by 
the professors of Salerno, who considered tlisit ; — 

" It makes sad people joyous and calms irritable 

Certainly they attached great im* 
portance to it, and in the code ^ive 
particular instructions ys to how and 
when it should be practised. Fortu- 
nately they varied the times and 

** In February the thumb should 
be bled. In April, the foot. It i% 
unimportant where in May. In 

Vrr, AtflM. 


demkii ear. xxix 


September bleed the arm. 
of the forehead. '* 

In addition to these special rules, at certain periods 

the neck, the throat, the ankle, and the jugular vein 

all had to be operated upon* The procession of victims 

on a consulting day must have been a 

curious spectacle ! 

The injunctions as to walking exercise 
are very precise : — 

" In the morning mount the hills. At 
midday walk in the woods, and in the 
evening on the banks of the river. 1 * 

Among the precepts we find the cele- 
brated lines regarding the time necessarv 
for sleep :— 

Six hours' rt'freshitig h\vep suffice for anyone, 
b^ven hours the laiv take, eight hours are cpttd 
for none. 

Curiously, however, these lines are followed by others 
which permit any amount of sleep, provided it is net 
on the stomach or on the back ; and even go so far 
as to denounce the cruelty of waking people who are 
sleeping soundly I 

The precepts of the learned doctors regarding the 
care of the sight are not sufficiently well known, 
and are worthy of the greatest consideration : — 

If ynu would preserve yow eyes you should often ]el them see 
CJururr&msof running wafer atid the green of gras* and tret 
Vary i he thing* you look upon T and, to improve the sight* 

hi ihe morning scan the t tee-tops and the 

brocks in fading light. 

As a book the Aphorisms had an 
enormous circulation. The number 
of editions through which it passed 
proves its celebrity through the 
whole of the Middle Ages. Two 
hundred and forty editions were 
published between 1474 and 1846, 
and many earlier MSS. of the work 
are still in existence. Summed up in 
a few words , the secret of health of the 
School of Salerno is almost entirely 
contained in one of its precepts \ — 

41 Eat and drink little, Abstain 
from all kinds of excess, and be bled 
frequently. 1 * 

Not so very different, except in 
the last clause, from the secret of 
health of the present day. 
Of course, the poem gives remedies for certain 
ma Indies , and among them herbs and simples take a 
prominent place* The syrup of pine trees is indicated, 
as Norwegian tar now is with u* + for consumption and 
affect ions of the chest. A mixture of wine and a certain 
form of alcohol is supposed to cure sea-sickness, and a 
decoction of nettles is said to be sovereign against the 
bile of seri>ents. As a rule, however, with the march 
of modern science, the remedies found in the work 
are not so valuable as the precepts themselves. Terse 
and laconic us they are, they are just as applicable 
and expressive now as when they 
were written nearly a thousand years 

The quaint engravings which illus- 
trate this paper are copied, with the 
kind permission of the Conservateur 
of the Bibliothcque Mazarine, Paris, 
from a very rare edition of the famous 
code, which is carefully preserved in 
that celebrated library. 




by Google 

Original from 


With Some Easy Puzzles for Beginners. By Henry E. Dudeney 

A farmer. had a square cornfield. The corn was all 
ripe for reaping, and, as he was short of men, it was 
arranged that he and his son should share the work 
between them. The farmer first cut one rod wide all 
round the square, thus leaving a smaller square of 
standing corn in the middle of the field. " Now," he 
said to his son, " I have cut my half of the field, and 
you can do your share." The son was not quite satis- 
fied as to the proposed division of labour, and as the 
village schoolmaster happened to be passing he appealed 
to that person to decide the matter. He found the 
farmer was quite correct, provided there was no 
dispute as to the size of the field, and on this point 
they were agreed. Can you tell the area of the field r 
as that ingenious schoolmaster succeeded in doing ? 

Here is a new little puzzle with matches. It will 
be seen in the illustration that thirteen matches, 

representing a 
hurdles, have 
been so placed 

enclose six 
sheep-pens all 
of the same 

size. Now, one of these hurdles was stolen, and the 
farmer wanted still to enclose six pens of equal size 
with the remaining twelve. How was he to do it? 
All the twelve matches must be fairly used, and there 
must be, no duplicated matches or loose ends. 


Two youths, bearing the pleasant names of Moggs 
and Snoggs, were employed as junior clerks by a mer^ 
chant in Mincing Lane. They were both engaged at 
the same salary, i.e., commencing at the rate of fifty 
pounds a year, payable half-yearly. Moggs had a 
yearly rise of five pounds, and Snoggs was given the 
same, only he asked, for reasons that do not concern 
our puzzle, that he might take his rise at two pounds 
ten shillings half-yearly, to which his employer had 
no objection. 

Now we come to the real point of the puzzle. Moggs 
put regularly into the Post Office Savings Bank a 
certain proportion of his salary, while Snoggs saved 
twice as great a proportion of his, and at the end of 
five years they had together saved two hundred and 
sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings. How much had 
each saved ? The question of interest can be ignored. 
We can see some innocent readers smiling at the 
childish simplicity of this little poser and " doing it 
in the head." But ** wait and see." 

120.— A CHARADE. 
I STRUCK my first without any feeling of anger, and 
in consequence my first gradually became my second. 
Had the result been otherwise I could not have declared 
that my first was my whole. 

I PLUCKED nine ears of corn and threw them aside 
into a box. A mouse found out this little store and 
visited it daily ; but, curious to relate, although it 
brought three ears out of the box each day, it took 
nine days to remove all the corn. How was this ? 

The five concealed words in the following verse 
form a word square : — 

" Tis in the park we sometimes meet, 
Where she, a fourth, is often found. 
When turning third, myself to greet, 
She scorns the fifth of those around. 
My second is the name she bears, 
And at her throat a first she wears. 

Solutions to Last Month's Puzzle*. 

2^ 3 '4 

tog.— A CUT- 



THE illustration 

shows how to cut 

the four pieces 

and form with 

them a square. 

no.— A NEW 



If you form the three heaj)s (and are therefore the 
second to draw), any one of the following thirteen 
groupings will give you a win, if you play correctly : 
15, 14, 1 ; 15, 13, 2 ; 15, 12, 3 ; 15, 11, 4 ; 15, 10, 5 ; 
*5> 9. 6 ; 15, 8, 7 ; 14, 13* 3 J Mi ll > 5 J J 4, 9, 7 ; '3> 
n, 6 ; 13, 10, 7 ; 12, 11, 7. But we have not space 
to give all the minor grouj>s that the player must 
(and can) succes- ^ 

sively secure in . :\ 

order to ensure / • \ 

his winning. / ; \ 

1 1 1. -THE * * I .* * 

TWELVE / \ : ' '• 


If you ignore / / ; \ 

the four black pies ^ .■* • \ ..^ 

in our illustration,, / "<•> ... ,.-•' 

the remaining / / /.&'. \ \ 

twelve are in / .*' ,.-*'" '. '***-., \\ 

t h e i r o r i g i n a 1 .',;*.-'"" ! * * -\**^ 

positions. N ow ^ ^ ^ ^ 

remove the four ; 

detached pies to ; 

the places occupied : 

by the black ones, £ 
and you will have 

your seven straight rows of four, as shown by the 
dotted lines. 

112. — Arrange the three matches as shown in the 
illustration, and stand the 
box on end in the centre. 
113. — Of course, the 
box cost a farthing. 
114.— HETRAYALand 
"""""*"*»<*4to, PA R IS H IONERS. 

* -in.— STEAM, MATES, 
116.— The top row must 
be one of the four following numbers : 192, 219, 273, 


[ IVe shall bt glad to receive Contrihdwm to ihis sertioft, and ts pay for such as are accepted*} 


HERE is what I think you will consider a success- 
ful attempt at fake photography. The subject 
is a model of the steamer Juwo, and is constructed 
from paper, cardboard, wire, pins, and thread* The 
tength is about twenty inches, The model was placed 
00 a polished table, which gave a reflection like water. 
The hills in the background were sketched on brown 
paper, and the sky consists of a white sheet behind 
the hills, To a casual observer the appearance is 
that of the real steamer at sea + — Mr. A* G. Houstoun, 
ii, Cambridge Drive, Glasgow. 


I^HE very unusual sight of two trees growing 
inside a church is to be seen at the Parish 
Church tit Ross, Herefordshire. The vicar has allowed 

then i to remain, realizing to the full their 
value from a financial point of view. Two 
shillings is charged for permission to photo- 
graph them, and doubtless many people 
attend service here on Sundays, especially 
in the summer, partly in order that they may 
see so strange a si^ht.— Mr. A, W. Cutler, 
Rose Hilt House, Worcester. 


WITH a temperature of nodeg. in the 
shade, the tree shown in the photo- 
graph reproduced below seems strangely at 


variance with Nature's ways. Not only the Jtree 
but the ground surrounding it was covered with a 
white powder resembling snow. The trii stood near 
a power-house, where the steam irurn the boiler em 
v el oped it, The lime in the vapour remained on the 
branches in a fine powdery substancef thus giving a 
winler aspect to the spot.— Mr* L. M. Edholm, 4*6 2 4* 
Fi K tieroa *tfj^g^|A|rr^rf, CaL, U.S.A. 





THE aecompanving snap-shot was taken thirty-* 
two miles from Nelson, the metropolis of the 


I HAVE been advised by my doctor to send you 
the accompanying photograph, as he thinks it 
would prove of interest to many of your readers. 
It shows my two brothers and myself, who, having 
been born on August 25th , 1853, bslieve ourselves to 
be the oldest triplets living in England. When we 
were about four months old my mo l Iter was requested 
tu attend at Buckingham Palace to receive the Queen's 
Bounty, and I still possess the invitation. — Miss^ E. 
Day, 36, Wharf Road, Latimer Road* North Ken- 



*"I^HE Jigure of a man apparently Jailing from the 
jt eaves of a building to which he clings by both 
hands is the novel advertising scheme of an American 
firm. The figure is life-sue, painted in natural colours, 
and, although really of metal, is so embossed as to 
stand out in relief, and to appear to be the body of 
a man struggling in distress. He carries an advertis- 
ing placard, from which it may be inferred that he is 
a sandwich -man who has fallen off the roofs on which 
he was strolling,— Mr. Charlton Lawrence Edholin, 
4^24, Eigne roa Street, Los Angeles, Cal-, ILS.A- 

Kootenays, B + C, on wliat is called here the Boundary 
Line, t\P. Railway, The tall post, which resembles a 
signal on a large scale, and with loose pieces of rojw 
hanging from the extended arm over the track, is 
called a iE tell-tale," and serves to warn trainmen, 
who run along the roofs of the big freight cars on 
their journeys of brake inspection, that a tunnel is 
close by* The rope -ends strike them harmlessly on 
the head, and allow them time to seek shelter between 
the cars before the train rushes into the lumieL These 
** tell-tales " are placed at each end of the tunnels 
throughout British Columbia wherever the railway 
extends*— Mr. Charles Campion, Nelson, British 


THIS very interesting link between the Sedan 
chair and the hansom cab if now in the museum 
at Bury St* Edmunds. It is an old Sedan chair which 
has been placed on wheels, and was actually used up 
to a few years ago by an old lady of that town for 
going to parties 
and so forth* 
Sin la chairs on 
wheels (called 
bmuettes) were in Kmii.v 

during the later 
years of the 
eighteenth cen- 
tury-— Mr. C, 

Van Noni'lrn. 
J5* Lincoln's 


LAST month we published a verse in which half- 
a-dozen words were left blank, each of these 
words being composed of the same six letters. The 
missing word in the firs-t )hm is TINSEL, and from 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 



(see pack 355O 

Original from 


by GoOglc 


Vol. xlv. 

MARCH, 1913. 

No. 267. 




Illustrated by Harry Rountree. 

Being an account of another amazing 
adventure of Professor George E. Challenger, 
Lord John Roxton, Professor Summerlee, and 
Mr. E. D. Malone, the discoverers of "The 

Lost World." 




I is imperative that now at 
once, while these stupendous 
events are still clear in my 
mind, I should set them down 
with that exactness of detail 
which time may blur. But 
even as I do so, I am over- 
whelmed by the wonder of the fact that it 
should be our little group of the " Lost 
World " — Professor Challenger, Professor 
Summerlee, Lord John Roxton, and myself 
— who have passed through this amazing 

When, some years ago, I chronicled in the 

Vol. xlv.— 25. Copyright, 1913, 

Daily Gazette our epoch-making journey in 
South America, I little thought that it should 
ever fall to my lot to tell an even stranger 
personal experience, one which is unique in 
all human annals, and must stand out in the 
records of history as a great peak among 
the humble foothills which surround it. 
The event itself will always be marvellous, 
but the circumstances that we four were 
together at the time of this extraordinary 
episode came about in a most natural and, 
indeed, inevitable fashion. I will explain the 
events which led up to it as shortly and as 
clearly as I can, though I am well aware that 
the fuller the detail upon such a subject 
the more welcome ft will be to the reader, 
by A. Conan HffftvERSI TY OF MICHIGAN 



It was upon Friday, the twenty-seventh of 
August — a date for ever memorable in the 
history of the world — that I went down to 
the office of my paper and asked for three 
days' leave of absence from Mr. McArdle, 
who still presided over our news department. 
The good old Scotchman shook his head, 
scratched his dwindling fringe of ruddy fluff, 
and finally put his reluctance into words. 

" I was thinking, Mr. Malone, that we could 
employ you to advantage these days. I was 
thinking there was a story that you are the 
only man that could handle." 

" I am sorry," said I. " Of course, if I am 
needed, there is an end of the matter. But 
the engagement was important and intimate. 
If I could be spared " 

" Well, I don't see that you can." 

It was bitterly disappointing, but I had to 
put the best face I could upon it. After all, 
it was my own fault, for I should have known 
by this time that a journalist has no right to 
make plans of his own. 

" Then I'll think no more of it," said I, 
with as much cheerfulness as I could 
assume. " What was it that you wanted 
me to do ? " 

" Well, it was just to interview that deevil 
of a man down at Rotherfield." 

" You don't mean Professor Challenger ? " 

" Aye, it's just him that I do mean. He 
ran young Alec Simpson, of the Courier, a mile 
down the high road last week by the collar 
of his coat and the slack of his breeches. 
You'll have read of it, likely, in the police 
report. Our boys would as soon interview 
a loose alligator in the Zoo. But you could 
do it, I'm thinking — an old friend like 

" Why," said I, greatly relieved, " this 
makes it all easy. It so happens that it was 
to visit Professor Challenger at Rotherfield 
that I was asking for leave of absence. The 
fact is, that it is the anniversary of our main 
adventure on the plateau three years ago, 
and he has asked our whole party down 
to his house to see him and celebrate the 

" Capital ! " cried McArdle, rubbing his 
hands and beaming through his glasses. 
" Then you will be able to get his opeenions 
out of him. In any other man I would say- 
it was all moonshine, but the fellow has made 
good once, and who knows but he may 
again ! " 

" Get what out of him ? " I asked, " What 
has he been doing ? " 

" Haven't you seen his letter on ' Scientific 
Possibeelities ' in to-day's Times ; 



McArdle dived down and picked a copy 
from the floor. 

" Read it aloud," said he, indicating a 
column with his finger. " I'd be glad to 
hear it again, for I am not sure now that I 
have the man's meaning clear in my head." 

This was the letter which I read to the 
news editor of the Gazette : — 


" Sir, — I have read with amusement, not 
wholly unmixed with some less complimentary 
emotion, the complacent and wholly fatuous 
letter of James Wilson MacPhail, which has 
lately appeared in your columns upon the 
subject of the blurring of Frauenhofer's lines 
in the spectra both of the planets and of the 
fixed stars. He dismisses the matter as of 
no significance. To a wider intelligence it 
may well seem of very great possible import- 
ance — so great as to involve the ultimate 
welfare of every man, womap, and child upon 
this planet. I can hardly hope, by the use 
of scientific language, to convey any sense 
of my meaning to those ineffectual people 
who gather their ideas from the columns of 
a daily newspaper. I will endeavour, there- 
fore, to condescend to their limitations, and 
to indicate the situation by the use of a homely 
analogy which will be within the limits of 
the intelligence of your readers." 

" Man, he's a wonder — a living wonder ! " 
said McArdle, shaking his head reflectively. 
" He'd put up the feathers of a sucking-dove 
and set up a riot in a Quakers' meeting. 
No wonder he has made London too hot for 
him. Well, let's have the analogy." 

" We will suppose," I read, " that a small 
bundle of connected corks was launched 
in a sluggish current upon a voyage across 
the Atlantic. The corks drift slowly on from 
day to day with the same conditions all 
round them. If the corks were sentient we 
could imagine that they would consider these 
conditions to be permanent and assured. 
But we, with our superior knowledge, know 
that many things might happen to surprise 
the corks. They might possibly float up 
against a ship, or a sleeping whale, or become 
tangled in seaweed. In any case, their 
voyage would probably end by their being 
thrown up on the rocky coast of Labrador. 
But what could they know of all this while 
they drifted so gently day by day in what they 
thought was a limitless and homogeneous 
ocean ? 

" Your readers will possibly comprehend 
that the Atlantic, in this parable, stands for 




the little unci obscure planetary 
system to which we belong. A third- 
rate sun, with its ragtag and bobtail 
of insignificant satellites, we float 
under the same daily conditions 
towards some unknown end, some 
squalid catastrophe whirl] will over- 
whelm us at the ultimate confines of 
space j where we are swept over an 
etheric Niagara, or dashed upon 
some unthinkable Labrador. I see 
the mighty ocean of ether through which we no room here for the. shallow and ignorant 
drift, and that the bunch of corks represents optimism of-ytfl^TOnRSiBijndent, Mr, James 





Wilson MacPhail, but many reasons why we 
should watch with a very close and interested 
attention every indication of change in those 
cosmic surroundings upon which our own 
ultimate fate may depend." 

" Man, he'd have made a grand meenister," 
said McArdle. " It just booms like an organ. 
Let's get down to what it is that's troubling 

" The general blurring and shifting of 
Frauenhofer's lines of the spectrum point, 
in my opinion, to a widespread cosmic change 
of a subtle and singular character. Light 
from a* planet is the reflected light of the sun. 
Light from a star is a self-produced light. 
But the spectra both from planets and stars 
have, in this instance, all undergone the same 
change. Is it, then, a change in those planets 
and stars ? To me such an idea is incon- 
ceivable. What common change could simul- 
taneously come upon them all ? Is it a 
change in our own atmosphere ? It is possible, 
but in the highest degree improbable, since 
we see no signs of it around us. What, then, 
is the third possibility ? That it may be 
a change in the conducting medium, in that 
infinitely fine ether which extends from star 
to star and pervades the whole universe. 
Deep in that ocean we are floating upon a 
slow current. Might that current not drift 
us into belts of ether which are novel and have 
properties of which we have never conceived ? 
There is a change somewhere. This cosmic 
disturbance of the spectrum proves it. It 
may be a good change. It may be an evil 
one. It may be a neutral one. We do not 
know. Shallow observers may treat the 
matter as one which can be disregarded, but 
the deeper intelligence of the true philosopher 
will understand that the possibilities of the 
universe are incalculable and that the wisest 
man is he who holds himself ready for the 
unexpected. To take an obvious example, 
who would undertake to say that the mys- 
terious and universal outbreak of illness 
which is recorded in your columns this very 
morning as having broken out among the 
indigenous races of Sumatra has no connec- 
tion with some cosmic chajnge to which they 
may respond more quickly than the more 
complex peoples of Europe ? I throw out 
the idea for what it is worth. To assert it is, 
in the present stage, as unprofitable as to 
deny it, but it is an unimaginative nujnskull 
who is too dense to perceive that it is well 
within the bounds of scientific possibility. — 
Yours faithfully, 

" George Edward Challenger. 

" The Briars, Rotherfield." 

" It's a fine, steemulating letter," said 
McArdle, thoughtfully, fitting a cigarette into 
the long glass tube which he used as a holder. 
" What's your opeenion of it, Mr. Malone ? " 

I had to confess my total and humiliating 
ignorance of the subject at issue. What, for 
example, were Frauenhofer's lines ? McArdle 
had just been studying the matter with the 
aid of our tame scientist at the office, and he 
picked from his desk two of those many- 
coloured spectral bands which bear a general 
resemblance to the hat-ribbons of some young 
and ambitious cricket club. He pointed out 
to me that there were certain black lines 
which formed cross-bars upon the series of 
brilliant colours extending from the red at 
one end, through gradations of orange, yellow, 
green, blue, and indigo, to the violet at the 

" Those dark bands are Frauenhofer's lines," 
said he. " The colours are just light itself. 
Every light, if you can split it up with a prism, 
gives the same colours. They tell us nothing. 
It is the lines that count, because they vary 
according to what it may be that produces 
the light. It is these lines that have been 
blurred instead of clear this last week, and 
all the astronomers have .been quarrelling 
over the reason. Here's a photograph of the 
blurred lines for our issue to-morrow. The 
public have taken no interest in the matter 
up to now, but this letter of Challenger's in the 
Titms will make them wake up, I'm thinking." 

" And this about Sumatra ? " 

" Well, it's a long cry from a blurred line 
in a spectrum to a sick nigger in Sumatra. 
And yet the chiel has shown us once before 
that he knows what he f s talking about. 
There is some queer illness down yonder, 
and to-day there's a cable just come in from 
Singapore that the lighthouses are all dark in 
the Straits of Sunda, and two ships on the 
beach in consequence. Anyhow, it's good 
enough for you to interview Challenger upon. 
If you get anything definite, let us have a 
column by Monday." 

I was coming out from the news editor's 
room, turning over my new mission in my 
mind, when I heard my name called from the 
waiting-room below. It was a telegraph-boy 
with a wire which had been forwarded from 
my lodgings at Streatham. The message 
was from the very man wc had been discussing, 
and ran thus : — 

" Malone, 17, Hill Street, Streatham. — 
Bring oxygen. — Challenger." 

" Bring oxygen ! " The Professor, as I 
remembered him, had an elephantine sense 
of humour capable of the most clumsy and 




unwieldy gambollings. Was this one of those 
jokes which used to reduce him to uproarious 
laughter, when his eyes would disappear, 
and he was all gaping mouth and wagging 
beard, supremely indifferent to the gravity 
of all around him ? I turned the words over, 
but could make nothing even remotely jocose 
out of them. Then surely it was an order — 
though a very strange one. He was the last 
man in the world whose deliberate order 
I should care to disobey. Possibly some 

chemical experiment was afoot ; possibly 

Well, it was no business of mine to speculate 
upon why he wanted it. I must get it. 
There was nearly an hour before I should 
catch the train at Victoria. I took a taxi, and 
having ascertained the address from the tele- 
phone book, I made for the Oxygen Tube 
Supply Company in Oxford Street. 

As I alighted on the pavement at my 
destination, two youths emerged from the 
door of the establishment carrying an iron 
cylinder, which, with some trouble, they 
hoisted into a waiting motor-car. An elderly 
man was at their heels scolding and directing 
in a creaky, sardonic voice. He turned 
towards me. There was no mistaking those 
austere features and that goatee beard. It 
was my old cross-grained companion, Pro- 
fessor Summerlee. 

" What ! " he cried. " Have you had one 
of these preposterous telegrams for oxygen ? " 

I exhibited it. 

" Well, well ! I have had one, too, and, 
as you see, very much against the grain, 
I have acted upon it. Our good friend is 
as exacting as ever. The need could not 
have been so urgent that he must desert the 
usual means of supply and encroach upon the 
time of those who are really busier than him- 
self. Why could he not order it direct ? " 

I could only suggest that he probably needed 
it at once. 

" Or thought he did, which is quite another 
matter. But it is superfluous now for you 
to purchase any, since I have this considerable 

" Still, for some reason he seems to wish 
that I should bring some, too. It will be 
safer to do exactly what he tells me." 

Accordingly, in spite of many grumbles 
and remonstrances from Summerlee, I ordered 
an additional tube, which was placed with the 
other in his motor-car, for he had offered me 
a lift to Victoria. 

I turned away to pay off my taxi, the 
driver of which was very cantankerous and 
abusive over his fare. As I came back to 
Professor Summerlee, he was having a furious 

altercation with the men who had carried 
down the oxygen, his little white goat's beard 
jerking with indignation. One of the fellows 
called him, I remember, " a silly old bleached 
cockatoo," which so enraged his chauffeur 
that he bounded out of his seat to take the 
part of his insulted master, and it was all we 
could do to prevent a riot in the street. 

These little things may seem trivial to 
relate, and passed as mere incidents at the 
time. It is only now, as I look back, that I 
see their relation to the whole story which 
I have to unfold. 

The chauffeur must, as it seemed to me, 
have been a novice or else have lost his nerve 
in this disturbance, for he drove vilely on the 
way to the station. Twice we nearly had 
collisions with other equally erratic vehicles, 
and I remember remarking to Summerlee 
that the standard of driving in London had 
very much declined. Once we brushed the 
very edge of a great crowd which was watching 
a fight at the corner of the Mall. The people, 
who were much excited, raised cries of anger 
at the clumsy driving, and one fellow sprang 
upon the step and waved a stick above our 
heads. I pushed him off, but we were glad 
when we had got clear of them and safe 
out of the park. These little events, coming 
one after the other, left me very jangled in 
my nerves, and I could see from my com- 
panion's petulant manner that his own 
patience did not improve with the years. 

But our good humour was restored when 
we saw Lord John Roxton waiting for us upon 
the platform, his tall, thin figure clad in a 
yellow tweed shooting-suit. His keen face, 
with those unforgettable eyes, so fierce and yet 
so humorous, flushed with pleasure at the 
sight of us. His ruddy hair was shot with 
grey, and the furrows upon his brow had 
been cut a little deeper by Time's chisel, but 
in all else he was the Lord John who had been 
our good comrade in the past. He roared 
with amusement when he saw the oxygen 
cylinders upon the porter's trolly behind us. 

" So you've got them, too ! " he cried. 
" Mine is in the van. Whatever can the old 
dear be after ? " 

" Have you seen his letter in the Times ? " 
I asked. 

" What was it ? " 

" Stuff and nonsense ! " said Summerlee, 

" Well, it's at the bottom of this oxygen 
business, or I am mistaken," said I. 

" Stuff and nonsense ! " cried Summerlee 
again, with quite unnecessary violence. 




and he had already lit the short and charred 
old briar pipe which seemed to singe the end 
of his long , aggressive nose. 

" Friend Challenger is a clever man," said 
he f with great vehemence, " No one can 
deny it, It's a fool that denies it. Look -at 
his hat. There's a sixty-ounce brain inside 
it— a big engine, running smooth, and turning 
out clean work- Show me the engine-house 
and I'll tell you the size of the engine. But 
he is a born charlatan — you've heard me tell 

him so to his face — a born charlatan, with a 
kind of dramatic trick of jumping into the 
limelight. Tilings are quiet, so friend Chal- 
lenger sees a chance to set the public talking 
about him. You don't imagine that he 
seriously believes all this nonsense about 
a change in the ether and a danger to the 
human race ? Was ever such a cock-and- 
bull story in this life ? J " 

He sat like an old white raven, croaking 
and shaking mth sardonic laughter. 




A wave of anger passed through me as 
I listened to Summerlee. It was disgraceful 
that he should spoak thus of the leader who 
had been the source of all our fame and given 
us such an experience as no men have ever 
enjoyed. I had opened my mouth to utter 
some hot retort, when Lord John got before 

" You had a scrap once before with old man 
Challenger," said he, sternly, " and you were 
down and out inside ten seconds. It seems 
to me, Professor Summerlee, he's beyond 
your class, and the best you can do with him 
is to leave him alone. " 

" Besides," said I, " he has been a good 
friend to every one of us. Whatever his 
faults may be, I don't believe he ever speaks 
evil of his comrades behind their backs." 

" Well said, young fellah my lad," said 
Lord John Roxton. Then, with a kindly 
smile, he slapped Professor Summerlee upon 
his shoulder. " Come, Herr Professor, we're 
not going to quarrel at this time of day. 
We've seen too much together. But keep off 
the grass when you get near Challenger, 
for this young fellah and I have a bit of a 
weakness for the old dear." 

But Summerlee was in no humour for 
compromise. His face was screwed up in 
rigid disapproval, and thick curls of angry 
smoke rolled up from his pipe. 

" As to you, Lord John Roxton," he 
creaked, " your opinion upon a matter of 
science is of as much value in my eyes as 
my views upon a new type of shot-gun 
would be in yours. I have my own judgment, 
sir, and I use it in my own way. Because it 
has misled me c ice, is that any reason why 
I should accept without criticism anything, 
however far-fetched, which this man may 
care to put forward ? Are we to have a Pope 
of science, with infallible decrees laid down 
ex cathedra, and accepted without question 
by the faithful ? I tell you, sir, that I have 
a brain of my own, and that I should feel 
myself to be a snob and a slave if I did not 
use it. If it pleases you to believe this 
rigmarole about ether and Frauenhofer's 
lines upon the spectrum, do so by all means, 
but do not ask one who is older and wiser 
than yourself to share in your folly. Is it 
not evident that if the ether were affected 
to the degree which he maintains, and if it 
were obnoxious to human health, the result 
of it would already be apparent upon our- 
selves ? " Here he laughed with uproarious 
triumph over his own argument. " Yes, sir, 
we should already be very far from our normal 
selves, and instead of sitting quietly discussing 

VoL xlv.-26. 

scientific problems in a railway train we 
should be showing actual symptoms of the 
poison which was working within us. Where 
do we see any signs of this poisonous cosmic 
disturbance ? " 

I felt more and more angry. There was 
something very irritating and aggressive in 
Summerlee's demeanour. 

" I think that if you knew more about the 
facts you might be less positive in your 
opinion," said I. 

Summerlee took his pipe from his mouth 
and fixed me with a stony stare. 

" Pray what do you mean, sir, by that 
somewhat impertinent observation ? " 

" I mean that when I was leaving the 
office the news editor told me that a telegram 
had come in confirming the general illness 
of the Sumatra natives, and adding that the 
lights had not been lit in the Straits of 

" Really, there should be some limits to 
human folly ! " cried Summerlee, in a positive 
fury. " Is it possible that you do not realize 
that ether, if for a moment we adopt Chal- 
lenger's preposterous supposition, is a uni- 
versal substance which is the same here as 
at the other side of the world ? Do you for 
an instant suppose that there is an English 
ether and a Sumatran ether ? Perhaps you 
imagine that the ether of Kent is in some way 
superior to the ether of Surrey, through which 
this train is now bearing us. There really 
are no bounds to the credulity and ignorance 
of the average layman. Is , it conceivable 
that the ether in Sumatra should be so deadly 
as to cause total insensibility at the very time 
when the ether here has had no appreciable 
effect upon us whatever ? Personally, I can 
truly say that I never felt better in my life." 

" That may be. I don't profess to be a 
scientific man," said I, " though I have heard 
somewhere that the science of one generation 
is usually the fallacy of the next. But it does 
not take much common sense to see that as 
we seem to know so little about ether it might 
be affected by some local conditions in various 
parts of the world, and might show an effect 
over there which would only develop later 
with us." 

" With * might ' and * may ' you can prove 
anything," cried Summerlee. " Pigs may 
fly. Yes, sir, pigs may fly— but they don't. 
It is not worth arguing with you. Challenger 
has filled you with his nonsense and you are 
both incapable of reason. I had as soon 
lay arguments before those railway cushions." 

" I must say, Professor Summerlee, that 
your manners do not seem to have improved 




since I last had the pleasure of meeting you/' 
said Lord John, severely. 

" You lordlings are not accustomed to 
hear the truth/' Summerlee answered, with 
a bitter smile. " It comes as a bit of a shock, 
does it not, when someone makes you realize 
that your title leaves you none the less a 
very ignorant man ? " 

" Upon my word, sir," said Lord John, 
very stern and rigid, " if you were a younger 
man you would not dare to speak to me in 
so offensive a fashion." 

Summerlee thrust out his chin, with its 
little wagging tuft of goatee beard. 

" I would have you know, sir, that, young 
or old, there has never been a time in my life 
when I was afraid to speak my mind to an 
ignorant coxcomb — yes, sir, an ignorant 
coxcomb, if you had as many titles as 
slaves could invent and fools could adopt." 

For a moment Lord John's eyes blazed, 
and then, with a tremendous effort, he 
mastered his anger and leaned back in his 
seat with arms folded and a bitter smile 
upon his face. To me all this was dreadful 
and deplorable. Like a wave, the memory 
of the past swept over me, the good comrade- 
ship, the happy, adventurous days — all that 
we had suffered and worked for and won. 
That it should have come to this — to insults 
and abuse ! Suddenly I was sobbing — 
sobbing in loud, gulping, uncontrollable 
sobs which refused to be concealed. My 
companions looked at me in surprise. I 
covered my face with my hands. 

" It's all right," said I. " Only— only it 
is such a sad pity ! " 

" You're ill, young Lilah, that's what's 
amiss with you," said Lord John. " I thought 
you were queer from the first." 

" Your habits, sir, have not mended since 
I saw you last," said Summerlee, shaking his 
head. " I also observed your strange manner 
the moment we met. You need not waste 
your sympathy, Lord John. These tears are 
alcoholic. The man has been drinking. By 
the way, Lord John, I called you a coxcomb 
just now, which was, perhaps, unduly severe. 
But the word reminds me of a small accom- 
plishment, trivial but amusing, which I used 
to possess. You know me as the austere 
man of science. Can you believe that I once 
had a well-deserved reputation in several 
nurseries as a farmyard imitator ? Would 
it amuse you to hear me crow like a cock ? " 

" No, sir," said Lord John, who was still 
greatly offended ; " it would not amuse 


" My imitation of the clucking hen who 

had just laid an egg was also considered 
rather above the average. Might I venture ? " 

" No, sir, no — certainly not." 

But, in spite of the earnest prohibition, 
Professor Summerlee laid down his pipe 
and for the rest of our journey he entertained 
— or failed to entertain — us by a succession 
of bird and animal cries which seemed so 
absurd that my tears were suddenly changed 
into boisterous laughter, which must have 
become quite hysterical as I sat opposite 
this grave Professor and saw him — or rather 
heard him — in the character of the uproarious 
rooster or the puppy whose tail had been 
trodden upon. Once Lord John passed across 
his newspaper, upon the margin of which he 
had written in pencil, " Poor devil ! Mad 
as a hatter." No doubt it was very eccentric, 
and yet the performance struck me as extra- 
ordinarily clever and amusing. 

Whilst this was going on Lord John leaned 
forward and told me some interminable story 
about a buffalo and an Indian rajah, which 
seemed to me to have neither beginning nor 
end. Professor Summerlee had just begun 
to chirrup like a canary, and Lord John to 
get to the climax of his story, when the train 
drew up at Jarvis Brook, which had been 
given us as the station for Rotherfield. 

And there was Challenger to meet us. 
His appearance was glorious. Not all the 
turkey-cocks in creation could match the 
slow, high-stepping dignity with which he 
paraded his own railway station, and the 
benignant smile of condescension with which 
he regarded everybody around him. If he 
had changed in anything since the days of old, 
it was that his points had become accentuated. 
The huge head and great sweep of forehead, 
with its plastered lock of black hair, seemed 
even greater than before. His black beard 
poured forward in a more impressive cascade, 
and his clear grey eyes, with their insolent 
and sardonic eyelids, were even more masterful 
than of yore. 

He gave me the amused hand-shake and 
encouraging smile which the head master 
bestows upon the small boy, and, having 
greeted the others and helped to collect their 
bags and their cylinders of oxygen, he stowed 
us and them away in a large motor-car which 
was driven by the same impassive Austin, 
the man of few words, whom I had seen in 
the character of butler upon the occasion of 
my first eventful visit to the Professor. Our 
journey led us up a winding hill through 
beautiful country. I sat in front with the 
chauffeur, but behind me my three comrades 
seemed to me to bs all talking together. 




Lord John was still struggling with his 
buffalo story ? so far as I could make out, 
while once again I heard the deep rumble 
of Challenger and the insistent accents of 
Summer lee in high and fierce scientific 
debate, ► Suddenly Austin slanted his 
mahogany face towards me without taking 
his eyes from his steering-wheel, 

" I'm under notice," said he. 

M Dear me ! " said I. 

Everything seemed strange to-day* Every- 
one said queer > unexpected things* It was 
like a dream. 

by L^OOgle 

11 It's forty-seven times/ 1 .said Austin, 

'* When do you go ? " I asked* for want 
of some better observation, 

u I don't go," said Austin, 

The conversation seemed to have ended 
there, but presently he came back to it. 

"If I was to go, who would look after 
J im ? " He jerked his head towards his 
master, " Who would J e get to serve 
1m ? H 

" Someone else," I suggested, lamely. 

" Not J e. No one would stay a week- 




If I was to go, that 'ouse would run down 
like a watch with the mainspring out. I'm 
telling you because you're 'is friend, and you 
ought to know. If I was to take 'im at 'is 
word — but there, I -wouldn't have the 'eart. 
'E and the missus would be like two babes 
left out in a bundle. I'm just everything. 
And then 'e goes and gives me notice." 

" Why would no one stay ? " I asked. 

" Well, they wouldn't make allowances, 
same as I do. 'E's a very clever man, the 
master — so clever that 'e's clean balmy 
sometimes. I've seen 'im right off 'is onion, 
and no error. Well, look what 'e did this 


Austin bent over to me. 

" 'E bit the 'ousekeeper," said he, in a 
hoarse whisper. 

" Bit her ? " 

" Yes, sir. Bit 'er on the leg. I saw 'er 
with my own eyes whooping and 'opping down 
the drive." 

" Good gracious ! " 

" So you'd say, sir, if you could see some 
of the goings-on. 'E don't make friends 
with the neighbours. There's some of them 
thinks that when 'e was up among those 
monsters you wrote about, it was just * 'Ome, 
Sweet 'Ome,' for the master, and 'e was 
never in fitter company. That's what they 
say. But I've served 'im ten years, and I'm 
fond of 'im, and, mind you, 'e's a great man, 
when all's said an' done, and it's an honour 
to serve 'im. But 'e does try one cruel at 
times. Now look at that, sir. That ain't 
what you might call old-fashioned 'ospitality, 
is it now ? Just you read it for yourself." 

The car on its lowest speed had ground 
its way up a steep, curving ascent. At the 
corner a notice-board peered over a well- 
clipped hedge. As Austin said, it was not 
difficult to read, for the words were few and 
arresting : — 


Visitors, Pressmen, and Mendicants 
are not encouraged. 


" No, it's not what you might call 'earty," 
said Austin, shaking his head and glancing 
up at the deplorable placard. " It wouldn't 
look well in a Christmas-card. I beg your 
pardon, sir, for I haven't spoke as much as 

this for many a long year, but to-day my feel- 
ings seem to 'ave got the better of me. 'E can 
sack me till 'e's blue in the face, but I ain't 
going, and that's flat. I'm 'is man and 'e's 
my master, and so it will be, I expect, to the 
end of the chapter." 

We had passed between the white posts 
of a gate and up a curving drive, lined with 
rhododendron bushes. Beyond stood a low 
brick house, picked out with white woodwork, 
very comfortable and pretty. Mrs. Chal- 
lenger, a small, dainty, smiling figure, stood 
in the open doorway to welcome us. 

" Well, my dear," said Challenger, bustling 
out of the car, " here arc our visitors. It is 
something new for us to have visitors, is it 
not ? No love lost between us and our 
neighbours, is there ? If they could get rat 
poison into our baker's cart, I expect it would 
be there." 

" It's dreadful— dreadful ! " cried the lady, 
between laughter and tears. " George is 
always quarrelling with everyone. We haven't 
a friend on the country-side." 

" It enables me to concentrate my attention 
upon my incomparable wife," said Challenger, 
passing his short, thick arm round her waist. 
Picture a gorilla and a gazelle, and you have 
the pair of them. " Come, come, these 
gentlemen are tired from a journey, and 
luncheon should be ready. Has Sarah 
returned ? " 

The lady shook her head ruefully, and the 
Professor laughed loudly and stroked his 
beard in his masterful fashion. 

" Austin," he cried, u when you have put 
up the car you will kindly help your mistress 
to lay the lunch. Now, gentlemen, will you 
please step into my study, for there are one 
or two very urgent things which I am anxious 
to say to you." 



As we crossed the hall the telephone - bell 
rang, and we were the involuntary auditors 
of Professor Challenger's end of the ensuing 
dialogue. I say " we," but no one within a 
hundred yards could have failed to hear the 
booming of that monstrous voice, which 
reverberated through the house. His answers 
lingered in my mind. 

44 Yes, yes, of course, it is I. . . . Yes, 
certainly, the Professor Challenger, the famous 
Professor, who else ? ... Of course, every 
word of it, otherwise I should not have 
written it. ... I shouldn't be surprised. . . . 
There is every indication of it. . . . Within 
a day or so at rtie riirthest. t , . . Well, I can't 





help that, can I ? . . . Very unpleasant, no 
doubt, but I rather fancy it will affect more 
important people than you. There is no 
use whining about it. . . . No, I couldn't 
possibly. You must take your chance. . . . 
That's enough, sir. I have something more 
important to do than to listen to such 

He shut off with a crash and led us upstairs 
into a large, airy apartment which formed his 
study. On the great mahogany desk seven 
or eight unopened telegrams were lying. 

" Really," he said, as he gathered them up, 
" it would save my correspondents' money 
if I had a telegraphic address. Possibly 
* Noah, Rotherfield,' would be the most 

As usual when he made an obscure joke, 
he leaned against the desk and bellowed in 
a paroxysm of laughter, his hands shaking 
so that he could hardly open the envelopes. 

" Noah ! Noah ! " he gasped, with a face 
of beetroot, while Lord John and I smiled 
in sympathy, an.d Summerlee, like a dyspeptic 
goat, wagged his head in sardonic disagree- 
ment. Finally Challenger began to open his 
telegrams, and the three of us stood in the 
bow window and occupied ourselves in 
admiring the magnificent view. 

It was certainly worth looking at. The 
road in its gentle curves had really brought 
us to a considerable elevation — seven hundred 
feet, as we afterwards discovered. Chal- 
lenger's house was on the very edge of the 
hill, and from its southern face, in which was 
the study window, one looked across the vast 
stretch of the weald to where the gentle 
curves of the South Downs formed an undu- 
lating horizon. In a cleft of the hills a haze 
of smoke marked the position of Lewes. 
Immediately at our feet th^re lay a rolling 
plain of heather, with the long, vivid green 
stretches of the Crawborough golf course, 
all dotted with the players. A little to the 
south, through an opening in the woods, 
we could see a section of the main line from 
London to Brighton. In the immediate 
foreground, under our very noses, was a 
small enclosed yard, in which stood the car 
which had brought us from the station. 

An ejaculation from Challenger caused us 
to turn. He had read his telegrams and had 
arranged them in a little methodical pile 
upon his desk. His broad, rugged face, or 
as much of it as was visible over the matted 
beard, was still deeply flushed, and he seemed 
to be under the influence of some strong 

" Well, gentlemen/' he said, " this is indeed 

an interesting reunion, and it takes place 
under extraordinary — I may say unpre- 
cedented — circumstances. May I ask if you 
have observed anything upon your journey 
from town ? " 

" The only thing which I observed," said 
Summerlee, with a sour smile, " was that 
our young friend here has not improved in 
his manners during the years that have passed; 
I am sorry to state that I have had to seriously 
complain of his conduct in the train, and I 
should be wanting in frankness if I did not 
say that it has left a most unpleasant impres- 
sion in my mind." 

" Well, well, we all get a bit prosy some- 
times," said Lord John. " The young fellah 
meant no harm. After all, he's an Inter- 
national, so if he takes half an hour to describe 
a game of football he has more right to do it 
than most folk." 

" Half an hour to describe a game ! " I 
cried, indignantly. " Why, it was you that 
took hajf an hour with some long story about 
a buffalo. Professor Summerlee will be my 

" I can hardly judge which of you was the 
most utterly wearisome," said Summerlee. 
" I declare to you, Challenger, that I never 
wish to hear of football or of buffaloes so long 
as I live." 

" I have never said one word to-day about 
football," I protested. 

Lord John gave a shrill whistle, and Sum- 
merlee shook his head sadly. 

" So early in the day, too," said he. " It 
is indeed deplorable. As I sat there in sad 
but thoughtful silence " 

" In silence ! " cried Lord John. " Why, 
you were doin' a music-hall turn of imitations 
all the way — more like a runaway gramophone 
than a man." 

Summerlee drew himself up in bitter 

" You are pleased to be facetious, Lord 
John," said he, with a face of vinegar. 

" Why, dash it all, this is clear madness," 
cried Lord John. u Each of us seems to 
know what the others did and none of us 
knows what he did himself. Let's put it all 
together from the first. We got into a first- 
class smoker, that's clear, ain't it ? Then we 
began to quarrel over friend Challenger's 
letter in the Times" 

"Oh, you did, did you ? " rumbled our 
host, his eyelids beginning to droop. 

" You said, Summerlee, that there was no 
possible truth in his contention." 

" Dear me ! " said Challenger, puffing out 

** »EMv^fel^N beard - " No 



possible truth ! I seem to have heard the 
words before. And may I ask with what 
arguments the great and famous Professor 
Summerlee proceeded to demolish the humble 
individual who had ventured to express an 
opinion upon a matter of scientific possibility ? 
Perhaps before he exterminates that unfor- 
tunate nonentity he will condescend to give 
some reasons for the adverse views which he 
has formed." 

He bowed and shrugged and spread his 
open hands as he spoke with his -elaborate 
and elephantine sarcasm, 

1 The reason was simple enough/* said the 
dogged Summerlee. " I contended that, if 
the ether surrounding the earth was so toxic 
in one quarter that it produced dangerous 
symptoms, it was 
hardly likely that 
we three in the 
railway carriage 
should be entirely 

The explanation 
only brought up- 
roar Lous merri- 
ment from Chal- 
lenger. He laughed 
until everything 
in the room 
seemed to rattle 
and quiver. 

41 Our worthy 
Summerlee is, not 
for the first time, 
somewhat out of 
touch with the 
facts of the situa- 
tion/ 3 said he at 
last, mopping his 
brow. "Now, 
gentlemen, I can- 
not make my 
point better than 
by detailing to 
you what I have 
myself done this 
morning. You 
will the more 
easily condone any 
mental aberration 
upon your own 
part when you 
realize that even I 
have had moments 
when my balance 
has been dis- 
turbed. We have 
had for some 

years in this household a housekeeper- 
one Sarah, with whose second name I have 
never attempted to burden my memory. 
She is a woman of a severe and for- 
bidding aspect, prim and demure in her 
bearing, very impassive in her nature, and 
never known within our experience to show 
signs of any emotion. As I sat alone at my 
breakfast — Mrs. Challenger keeps her room 
of a morning — it .suddenly entered my head 
that it would be entertaining and instructive 
to see whether I could find any limits to this 
womun^s imperturbability, I devised a simple 
but effective experiment* Having upset a 
small vase of flowers which stood in the centre 
of the cloth, 1 rang the bell and slipped under 
the table. She entered, and, seeing the room 

empty, imagined 
that I had with- 
drawn to th e stu d y . 
As I had expected, 
she approached 
and leaned $ver 
the table to replace 
the vase. I had a 
vision of a cotton 
stocking and an 
elastic-Sided boot. 
Protruding my 
head j I sank my 
teeth into the calf 
of her leg. The 
experiment was 
successful beyond 
belief* For some 
moments she stood 
paralyzed ? staring 
down at my head. 
Then with a shriek 
she tore herself 
free and rushed 
from the room. I 
pursued her with 
Some thoughts of 
an explanation, 
but she flew down 
the drive ? and some 
minutes after- 
wards I was able to 
pick her out with 
my field-glasses 
travelling very 
rapidly in a south- 
weste rl y d irec t i on . 
I tell you the anec- 
dote for what it 
is worth. Is it 
["fl" _Has it conveyed 

30 gk- — wffir™^ 




anything to your minds ? What do you think 
of it, Lord John ? " 

Lord John shook his head gravely. 

" You'll be gettin' into serious trouble 
some of these days if you don't get a brake 
on," said he. 

" Perhaps you have some observation to 
make, Summerlee ? " 

" Drop all work instantly and take three 
months in a German watering-place," said he. 

" Profound ! profound ! " cried Challenger. 
" Now, Mr. Malone, is it possible that wisdom 
may come from you where your seniors have 
so signally failed ? " 

And it did. I say it with all modesty, 
but it did. Of course, it all seems obvious 
enough to you who know what occurred, 
but it was not so very clear when everything 
was new. But it came on me suddenly with 
the full force of conviction. 

" Poison ! " I cried. 

Then, even as I said the word, my mind 
flashed back over the whole morning's 
experiences, past Lord John with his buffalo, 
past my own hysterical tears, past the out- 
rageous conduct of Professor Summerlee, to 
the queer happenings in London, the row in 
the park, the driving of the chauffeur, the 
quarrel at the oxygen warehouse. Every- 
thing fitted suddenly into its place. 

" Of course," I cried again. " It is poison. 
We are all poisoned." 

" Exactly," said Challenger, rubbing his 
hands ; " we are all poisoned. Our planet 
has swum into the poison belt of ether, and 
is now flying through it at the rate of some 
millions of miles a minute. Our young friend 
has expressed the cause of all our troubles 
in a single word, ' Poison.' " 

We looked at each other in silence. No 
comment seemed to meet the situation. 

" There is a mental inhibition by which 
such symptoms can be checked and con- 
trolled," said Challenger. " I cannot expect 
to find it developed in all of you to the same 
point which it has reached in me, for I suppose 
that the strength of our different mental 
processes bears some proportion to each other. 
But no doubt it is appreciable even in our 
young friend here. After the little outburst 
of high spirits which so alarmed my domestic 
I sat down and reasoned with myself. I put 
it to myself that I had never before felt 
impelled to bite any of my household. The 
impulse had then been an abnormal one. 
In an instant I perceived the truth. My 
pulse upon examination was ten beats above 
the usual, and my reflexes were increased. 

by ^_ 

I called upon my higher and saner self, the 
real G. E. C, seated serene and impregnable 
behind all mere molecular disturbance. 
I summoned him, I say, to watch the foolish 
mental tricks which the poison would play. 
I found that I was indeed the master. I could 
recognize and control a disordered mind. It 
was a remarkable exhibition of the victory 
of mind over matter, for it was a victory 
over that form of matter which is most 
intimately connected with mind. I might 
almost say that mind was at fault, and that 
personality controlled it. Thus, when my 
wife came downstairs and I was impelled to 
slip behind the door and alarm her by some 
wild cry as she entered, I was able to stifle 
the impulse and to greet her with dignity and 
restraint. Later, when I descended to order 
the car and found Austin bending over it 
absorbed in repairs, I controlled my open 
hand even after I had lifted it, and refrained 
from giving him an experience which would 
possibly have caused him to follow in the 
steps of the housekeeper. On the contrary, 
I touched him on the shoulder and ordered 
the car to be at the door in time to meet 
your train. At the present instant I am most 
forcibly tempted to take Professor Summerlee 
by that silly beard of his, and to shake his 
head violently backwards and forwards. And 
yet, as you see, I am perfectly restrained. 
Let me commend my example to you." 

" I'll look out for that buffalo," said Lord 

" And I for the football match." 

" It may be that you are right, Challenger," 
said Summerlee, in a chastened voice. " I am 
willing to admit that my turn of mind is 
critical rather than constructive, and that 
I am not a ready convert to any new theory, 
especially when it happens to be so unusual 
and fantastic as this one. However, as I cast 
my mind back over the events of the morning, 
and as I reconsider the conduct of my com- 
panions, I find it easy to believe that some 
poison of an exciting kind was responsible for 
their symptoms." 

Challenger slapped his colleague upon 
the shoulder. " We progress," said he. 
" Decidedly we progress." 

" And pray, sir," asked Summerlee, humbly, 
" what is the present outlook ? " 

" With your permission I will say a few 
words upon that subject." He seated him- 
self upon his desk, his short, stumpy legs 
swinging in front of him. " We are assisting 
at a tremendous and awful function. It is, 
in my opinion, the end of the world." 



Xkings Seen and Not Seen 
oy the Referee. 


(Southern Ltagitz Kefirte)*- 

Illustratea by Chas, Grave. 

REFEREE in a football 
match sees and hears many 
things. He must take par- 
ticular notice of everything 
he sees, and absolutely no 
notice of almost everything 
he hears. Yet referee-baiting 
is not quite the popular sport it is represented 
to be by comic artists, and for my part I 
always say to myself , " Well, it amuses them 
and it does not hurt me/' when the wild men 
of the football world shout nasty things 
regarding my eyesight, my ability, my 
impartiality, ajid even my ancestry. I take 
this sort of thing as all in the day's work, let 
it pass at that, 
and am very 
grateful for the 
crumbs of 
humour thrown 
at me occasion- 
ally by a foot- 
ball crowd in a 
critical mood, 
Once an excited 
roared, " Can't 
yer see a foul 
unless it's got 
feathers on, 
ret?* I think 
if a player had 
said that I 
should have- sent 
him off the field, 
a n d reported 
him as a foot- 


ball criminal of 

the deepest dye, who ought to be suspended 

for the rest of his life. 

But players do say funny things Sometimes, 
41 Holy Moses ! Did ye see that trip ? " 
cried a dashing Irish forward, during a hot 
mix-up in the goal-mouth. I had seen 
nothing, so the game went on. After the 
match the Irish lad, one of the best the Green 
Isle ever bred, tackled me quietly and seriously 
about what he really thought was a glaring 

infringement. He may have been right — a 
referee cannot see everything — and, not 
wishing to argue the point, I evaded it— 
rather neatly, as 1 thought — by saying, Al My 
name is not Holy Moses, who was, if you 
remember, the gentleman you asked for a 
decision. 7y Like a shot came the reply, " J Tis 
right ye are, bedad ; an' 'tis as little ye know 
about football as the same Moses did when he 
was aslape in the bulrushes," 

After this, 1 have no more to write about 
things I have heard in connection with my 
refereeing, and will keep my remarks strictly 
within the limits defined by the title of this 
article. The position of a referee enables him 

to enjoy a 
peculiar view of 
the game. He 
does not get 
the general and 
extended survey 
which falls to 
the happy lot 
of the favoured 
spectator in a 
good seat, but 
h i s proximity 
to the players 
in action 
shows him 
many beautiful, 
deft touches 
which must be 
w i tnessed at 
close quarters 
to be appreci- 
ated as they 
He also sess the other side of the shield — 
the breaking (wilfully, seldom— unintention- 
ally, often) of the many and diverse laws laid 
down for the proper government of football. 
In connection with the latter there is much 
he does not see — in a Copenhagen sensfe, of 
course. Take a goalkeeper, for example. 
The strict letter of the law only allows him 
two ste^^ffk|t^J^pll in his hands. But 

su 0^fepfrm*H^^ ion of *■ ^ 


5 57 

"he is charged AM) knocked three or 


he is charged and knocked three or four 
steps— what then ? Surely there is nothing 
for it except the unseeing eye ? Again, some 
custodians are so quick in their movements 
that unless you are right on the man it is 
often a physical impossibility for a refereb 
to be certain whether or not a third step has 
been taken ; he can only give the player the 
benefit of the doubt. 

The work of a goalkeeper is hard enough, 
without the referee coming down at all heavily 
on the man* Very clever it is, too, especially 
when the goalie is a master of the art of 
placing himself in anticipation of a shot in 
just the one place where a forward has the 
absolute minimum of goal-space to shoot at, 
I have seen a quaint thing or two in con- 
nection with goalkceping. During an impor- 
tant amateur match this season I 
saw a big back rush across the 
field to keep off an eager forward, 
who was following up a slowly- 
moving ball. The goalkeeper dashed 
out, gave the leather a mighty 

"THE BALL BMJ fife ft ^OttdA: 

Vr-k *tv.-27. 


kick, and sent it bang in the nape of the neck 

of his own man. The ball spun back without 

a great deal of pace on it, and it was funny 

to see the strenuous efforts the goalie made 

to struggle home in time to effect a save. 

But the ball beat him by inches only, and a 

goal was scored while the unfortunate hack 

was turning round and round in dazed fashion, 

wondering what had hit htm, 

I once saw a goalkeeper in a similar con- 
dition, in an important League fixture, too. 

A forward got his foot to the ball with terrific 

force about a dozen 

yards from goal , 

and so quick was 

the shot that the 

goalkeeper, trained 

man as ' he was. 

simply had no time 

even to raise his 

hands to save his 

face. T h e ball 

struck him fair be- 
tween the eyes and 

spun almost 

straight up in the 

air for a ^ood 

twenty yards, to 

drop eventually 

just behind the 

goal. After which, 

I may add, the 

game was stopped 

for slight repairs 

to the goalkeeper, 

who. when he came 

t o, v o w e d h e 

41 would never head 

anv more out like 


Watching the hacks gives the referee 

plenty to do. Their position usually has its 

bearing on the possibilities of an infringement 

of the offside rule, and it is also very pretty 
to see them at work, 
especially when a really 
great pair of hacks like the 
famous brothers Walters 
are on the field. Fearless 
and fair tackling, clean 
and clever kicking, admir- 
able judgment in placing 
the ball at the feet of 
their own forwards, and 
mutual support and co- 
operation— these are 
qualities I often have the 
■pleasure of seeing when 







i. f 

2 5 8 


backs are striving with might and main to 
save their side, A good back becomes 
a second goalkeeper on occasion, and there 

v \*iy^\4\, 


is surely no more thrilling moment on a 
football field than when a dropping or 
bouncing ball is sailing under the cross-bar, 
and a hack, with a splendid running jump, 
clears with a flying overhead kick. Back 

p 1 a y : h a s its 
ludicrous s id e, 
especially when 
an ultra- cute de- 
fender passes 
back to his 
goalkeeper, and 
makes a sorry 
hash of things 


THB opposing S1DH," 

by popping in 
done credit to 
side. I suppose. 

a shot which would have 
a forward on the opposing 

however, that 

prrssed back may lye expected lo do weird 
things, and I certainly remember one case 
where a defender in a tight corner made a 
decided impression on a man's face with the 
sole of his hoot, and yet was really the injured 
party, strictly according to the rules of the 

It happened like this. The ball was bobbing 
and bouncing about in the goal-mouth in that 
thrilling style which makes spectators rise in 
their seats and sets the goalkeeper jumping 
all over the place, when a back, a tall chap, 
shaped for a high kick at the balL A minute 
fraction of time after the back had fixed his 
eye on the ball and begun to swing his foot 
for the effort a rival forward , a shortish man, 
darted forward to gain impetus for a leap 
which he hoped would enable him to head 







the ball into the net* It 
looked all like a case of 
whichever got there first 
either saving or putting on 
a certain goal, but it so hap- 
pened that they both arrived 
together. As near as I could 
judge— and I was very close 
at the moment — the back's foot and the 
forward's head came in contact with the 
leather in perfect unison , and so did the 
sole of the back's boot with the face of the 
forward, Down went the bold attacker like 
the proverbial log^ and as soon as he was 
fit to resume play f thrt;w the ball down. 
According to the strict letter of the law, I 
could have given a free kick against him ; for 
he was gu^^^^p^rous " play if ever a 





man was, and there is nothing in the rules to 
prevent a referee from penalizing a man 
whose methods are a danger to himself. If, 
however, that back had started his kick 
when the forward was well on his way towards 
the hall, the case would have been altogether 
different, and I should have awarded a free 
kick without a moment's hesitation, to say 
nothing of the by no means remote possibility 
of ordering the offender off the field. 

From this it must not be hastily inferred 
that I am in favour of pulling a man up for 
vigorous and energetic met hods ? ahvays pro- 
vided his play is as clean as it is strenuous. 
Football is no game for those incapable of 
giving and taking hard knocks as part of the 
sport ? and if a back uses his weight 
and strength fairly— well, that is 
what he is there for. But the sly 
trip, the vicious jab -with the 
elbow at close quarters, and that 
dirty and deliberate tap 
on the ankle which para- 
lyzes an opponent and 
may lame him for a 
season — these are the 
things which make my 
whistle toot and move 
my tongue to a sharp 
w caution/' which means " march- 
ing orders " next time, Happily, 
these offences are rare, and are 
diminishing with a gratifying ra- 
pid it y which points to their com- 
plete extinction at no distant date. 
Players, public, and football legis- 
lators side with the referee in 
sternly suppressing these shady 
practices, and nowadays a player 
who is known to have a weakness for foul 
play is sure to be dropped from any decent 
team, no matter what his general football 
ability may be. 

So far, so good. But it is a big mistake to 
emasculate the game in the vain endeavour 
to cope with the low dodges of those who do 
not mean to play it, who take the field" with 
the set purpose of doing anything they think 
the referee will not see, and which enables 
them to gain an advantage. 

It is impossible to legislate effectively 
against this type, and by attempting too 
much in this direction there is considerable 
danger of spoi lingthegame. Honest chargi ng 
never hurt football, and never will, and it 
is quite possible for any amount of it to be 
done without the least tendency to foul play. 
I should think there never was more straight- 
forward charging seen in any match than there 

was in the first Army r. Navy game at Queen's 
Club, when the late King Edward and the 
then Prince of Wales were present. It was 
a sight for gods and men to see the way 
Jack and Tommy hanged into each other 
with right good will ; but never a man w p as 
hurt, and the referee had a very easy time. 
Charging, even if heavy, is not without its 
touch of incidental humour, I was once 
refereeing a match where there was a difference 
of some three or four stone in weight between 
a particularly nippy forward and a back who 
was certainly not afraid to use his weight 
fairly, to say the least of it, The pair met 
several times, but always with the same 
result— the light forward simply bounced off 
the big hack and went 
to earth with more 
celerity than comfort. 
But he came up smiling 
every time, and never 
shirked a charge or 
showed the least re- 
sentment until I blew 
the whistle for t4 time." 
A f ter war d s f h we ver } 
in the dres sing- room 9 
he turned to the hefty 
back and said, with the 
same unvarying smile, 
vi I say, old chap, you 
don't happen to belong 
to the legal profession^ 
do you ? ,5 

Intention is the de- 
termini ng factor 
between football which 
is straight hut hard- 
fought and football 
which is dirty and dangerous, If I sue a 
man's eyes looking unutterable things, and 
his lips quivering with the unspoken intention 
of "getting his own back/' then that player 
becomes the object of my most special 
attention, and is brought up sharp at the least 
sign of infringement, I do see everything a 
man does when he is in that mood, but I do not 
see the little technical faults which have no 
real bearing on the progress of any particular 
game and are obviously unintentional. Sup- 
pose, for example, that a thrusting and 
forceful half-back is beset by a pair of clever 
wingers, who are tapping the ball to each 
other and adroitly avoiding tackle after 
tackle. Then something goes wrong with the 
tip- tap business , and the half and the forwards 
are mixed up in a hot tussle for the ball. The 
half gets in his kick, and as he does so happens 
to touch one d: his opponents with out- 


,(4 m 

- <* t ^ 

*THte lh:ht forward simply 




stretched hand,, in circumstances which 
show that his action was a perfectly natural 
one, due to the body pose essential to get 
the ball away, A technical infringement, no 
doubt, but not seen by referees who know 
their business. 

If j on the contrary, the man uses his hands 
to pusli off an opponent, 
or to play a kind of leap- 
frog to get his head to the 
ball, then the whistle must 
sound. But not otherwise, 
as my view of the matter 
is that the public does not 
pay its money to hear me 
oblige with a whistling 
solo, but wants to see the 
game ? and nothing but 
the game. Players, too, 
are not interested in my 
lung power. They want 
to play football — not keep 
stopping in response to 
the ever-read;' whistle of 
a referee who undoubtedly 
has splendid eyes to see, 
but no blind side for use 
when the spirit of the 
game demands a transient 
exhibition of masterly 

It is often a very nice question whether 
or not the whistle should sound, especially 
as there are ways and means of doing fair 
things unfairly on the football field. This 
contradiction needs a little explaining, but 
the point becomes 
only too clear 
when one forward 
is the outstanding 
star -artiste of a 
team— the main- 
spring of combi- 
nation and the 
greatest scoring 
force on his side. 
Such a player is 
known and 
marked, and re- 
ceives particular 
attention from the 
defenders against 
him. He must 
expect this, 
but when the 
4L attention " takes the form of two or three 
men charging at him simultaneously and 
systematically, it may be within the letter 
of the lawj but it b most decidedly pot the 

Digitized by GoOglC 





game, In such circumstances I interpret 
the rule referring to " violent ,J or tl dan- 
gerous " play in its broadest sense, but the 
unfortunate part of it is that the whistle may 
sound after the mischief has been done. 
Indeed, the great footballer may be next 
to knocked out of the match without the 
referee having the faintest 
excuse to blow his whistle. 
But j all the same, such 
conduct, organized and 
deliberate, is dead against 
that unwritten law of 
British fair play which is 
the salt of every descrip- 
tion of manly sport, and 
if persisted in will tend to 
degrade a grand game to 
the level of a gladiatorial 
spectacle* It is so need- 
less, too, as the opposing 
star can always be dimmed 
quite fairly. The manner 
iu which Need ham baulked 
Bloomer in an historic Cup 
final is a case in point* 
That magnificent half 
simply followed Bloomer 
all over the field like his 
shadow. He never left him, 
no matter where the ball 
went, and the result was that whenever the 
leather came near Bloomer there was Need- 
ham on the spot to worry his man, which 
he did most effectively. But it was alt clean 
and honest, and may fairly be quoted as 

extraordinary but 
perfectly permis- 
sible and justi- 
fiable football 
tactics devised 
to meet the 
needs of a special 

The many varia- 
tions of the off- 
side rule give the 
referee plenty to 
observe and act 
uponj and no de- 
partment of the 
game is rnoru 
fruitful in oppor- 
tunities for vehe- 
ment criticism 
from the crowd. Here, however, the referee 
has very little on which to exercise his 
discretionary powers. If a man is offside. 
that end^tha master, and the influence of 



26 1 

accident on the fact, so imprrtant in other 
infringements, is not to be considered. I 
should like to 'shatter one very common 
delusion regarding the offside rule, which is 
that simply because a man is in an offside 
position the game must be stopped. But to 
be offside in effect a man 
must act ; he cannot be 
passively offside, The rule 
says that when offside a 
man shall not " play the 
ball or in any way interfere 
with the play or an oppo- 
nent/' and to me it seems 
quite plain that until he 
does so he has been guilty 
of no offence. 

Personally , if I was a 
keen supporter of a team, 
I should like to fee th</ 
opposing forwards take up 
offside positions as much 
as they pleased, simply 
because they are out of the 
game until they are brought 
onside by a change in posi- 
tion. There are other nice 
points in the offside rule- 
points far to ocomplicated 
to interest my readers. 
Even experts differ widely 
on certain aspects of the 
offside rule, and the only 
final and comprehensive verdict 1 ever heard 
concerning it was that supplied by a keen 
partisan, who said: " Offside — yes, I know 
all about it. That's what's always given 
against our team," 

Among other things which the referee does 


not see is the ball which hits him somewhere 
in the back, occasionally with more force than 
is compatible with his dignified control of 
the game at the moment, This sort of thing 
has happened to me more than once, and, 
although I have never been able to see any- 
thing desperately funny in 
itj yet I can vouch that as 
a comic turn it is by far 
the greatest success seen on 
a football field. Yet why 
should even the minor mis- 
fortunes of a football referee 
excite nothing more human 
than the appreciative 
laughter of the multitude ? 
I suppose it is because the 
crowd regards a referee as 
a species of autocrat who is 
humanized when his dignity 
is upset by a flying ball. 
This may be true of a 
referee here and there, but 
most of them take a far 
different view of their 
duties and position. My 
idea of refereeing is not 
that I am the man who 
must be obeyed ; I keep 
that phase of my position 
in the background^ and 
take my whistle in hand 
with the idea of seeing 
sport and actively assisting twenty-two 
other sportsmen by just giving them a 
friendly " toot-toot ! " when, by mere chance, 
they happen to infringe one of the many laws 
without which football would degenerate into 
a meaningless scramble. 





by Google 

Original from 

The East a-Callm\ 


Illustrated ty Charles Crombie. 



was brand - new, and his 
country house was so newly 
occupied and recently fur- 
nished and freshly painted 
and lately aired that it seemed 
brand-new also, although it 
had stood in the same place for two hundred 
years. But the deeds of conveyance were as 
new as the house looked, and Sir Hudson Bagg 
and Lady Bagg were strangers in the county, 
though desperately anxious to remain so no 
more ; for Lady Bagg already, in her mind's 
eye, saw the Baggs pre-eminent among the 
county families. At present, however, calls 
were strangely few and tardy, so that expe- 
dients were necessary, and Sir Hudson and 
Lady Bagg became patrons of the Philan- 
thropic Society for Harassing the Indigent. 
That alone, of course, was not enough ; it 
was merely a step. The next was to take so 
active an interest in the society that it became 
advisable to organize a great meeting and 
conversazione in furtherance of its principles, 
to which everybody desirable in the county 
and out of it was invited, and for which Sir 
Hudson Bagg very kindly allowed the use 
of the Hall and grounds, where he and Lady 
Bagg were "at home" to all distinguished 
Harassers of the Indigent, and speeches and 
tea and resolutions and a garden-party took 
their parts in the confusion. 

The success was glorious. The Philan- 
thropic Harassers were a society of very high 
patronage, and for some while Lady Bagg 
even dared to indulge a hope that a minor 
Royalty might be netted. This failed to 
" come off," but the company was nevertheless 
sufficiently numerous and distinguished to 
constitute a triumph for the house of Bagg, 
and the first of many. So much, therefore, 
for Sir Hudson and Lady Bagg, who merely 
provide the house and grounds for this story, 
as they did for the Philanthropic Society for 
Harassing the Indigent. 


The day was fine, and a large crowd of 
people brightened the grounds. At least, 
some of them did, but a great proportion 
were a very serious-looking lot indeed. 
Bishops dotted the landscape, deans punc- 
tuated the lawns ; one or two countesses 
were visible, and a duchess very nearly came, 
but not quite. The less distinguished Harassers 
pointed out the more distinguished to each 
other, and the more distinguished exhibited 
themselves with great affability. There were 
several quite respectable politicians, and three 
Labour members came in strange mixtures of 
clothes which had cost hours of thinking out, 
to express their unutterable independence. 

" Why," said one visitor to another, 
indicating a clerically-attired figure in the 
distance, " I do believe that's Aubrey 
Fitzmaurice ! " 

" No, is it ? " replied his friend. " I 
haven't seen him since he buried himself 
in the East-end — not since he left Oxford, 
in fact. Mightn't have recognized him in 
those things." 

The first speaker turned to a second 
friend and repeated his remark. 

" Why, so I believe it is ! " answered this 
third observer. " Who'd have expected to 
see him here ? I thought he didn't believe 
in this sort of thing. I'll go over and speak 
to him presently." 

Each of these three pointed out the 
Reverend Aubrey Fitzmaurice to somebody 
else, for he was a man of celebrity among 
East-end parsons, and many tales were told 
of his whole-souled devotion to his work. A 
man of brilliant gifts, notable connections, 
and some private fortune, he had married a 
wife of like mind with himself, and had gone 
to live altogether in one of the worst of the 
East-end parishes, cutting himself off entirely 
from his old acquaintance, and giving his 
whole time and faculties for the bettering of 
the people in his parish. He lived with them 
and liked them, it was said, and gathered the 
worst of them about him in a club, where he 

U 1 1 I U I I I '_' I I 




met them on equal terms, playing billiards 
with them, boxing with them, and sharing as 
much of their lives as they would allow. It 
was so great a change for this exquisite of 
BalUol in particular that he was noted and 
talked of above the generality of them that 
laboured east of Aldgate, though he displayed 
himself less than any, and had vanished 
wholly from his earlier world. 

" That/' said a lady in the crowd, who 

"I believe his aunt's coming presently — - 
Lady Hilhury, And there's Clara's cousin Mary 
right across the lawn- We'll speak to her/' 

Meanwhile , Mr. Harry Ben yon, who had 
not seen the Reverend Aubrey Fitzmaurice 
since he left Ox ford , strolled across with his 
two friends and accosted the exile. * 

" Why, Aubrey, old chap ! " said Harry 
Benyom u I hardly knew you ! " 

" Wotcheer ! " replied the Reverend Aubrey 


had just been told, " is Aubrey Fitzmuurice, 
who married Clara Tyrwhitt and hid her and 
himself in some parish in the East-end. 
They've made quite a mania of it. Nobody's 
seen her sipce the wedding." 

" Is that the man ? M replied the other, 
11 Why 3 Clara Tyrwhitt was my greatest 
chum at school, and I haven't seen her for 
years. I must ask about her. Does anybody 
know him ? " * rt /% 1 t. 1 . ■■ 

Digitized by ^.lOOQ It 

Fitzmaurice* looking up quickly and con- 
tinuing his walk. li Cheer-oh ! " 

" Why, I don't believe you know me** 
answered Benyon, following and offering his 
hand. * You remember Harry Ben yon , 
surely ? ** 

14 What-ho I Don't I rather ! " responded 
the reverend gentleman,, shaking hands 
vigorously. *' Good ol' 'Airy I An ? r ow's 
yerself ? 'Original from 




" First-rate, thanks. But, I say, you are 
East-end, you know ! " 

" What d'you think ? Right in it ! I'm 
one o' the nuts down 'Oxton ! " 

" I'm sure you are. But do you keep it 
up always ? " 

" Keep it up ? Not 'arf ! Always keep 
it up. I'm a-thinkin' out a sermon now." 

Benyon and his friends looked at each 
other blankly, and then at the Reverend 
Aubrey Fitzmaurice. 

" Well/' said one, " if you deliver 'em like 
that I'd like to come and hear one." 

" Right-o, ol' cockalorum!* Come when- 
ever you like. Any old sinner's welcome ; 
an' bring a bob for the whack round. We 
don't often get a toff." 

" We'll all come," said Benyon, " and all 
bring our bobs for the — the what-d'ye-call-it. 
But now just you forget that sermon and the 
East-end for a bit and be yourself again. 
This function's going to be dull — we'll keep 

" Garn — cheese it, 'Any ! " replied the 
Reverend Mr. Fitzmaurice. " What price 
my sermon ? I got to think it over, I tell 
ye. See ye later on, matey." 

The reverend gentleman sheered off to a 
quieter part and left the three friends some- 
what perplexed. 

" They told me he'd gone East-end mad," 
remarked Benyon, " and by Jove he has ! 
Who'd have dreamed he'd have played it as 
low as that — he, of all men ? Making oneself 
popular -in the parish is all very well, but — 
hang it all ! " 

" There may be something in it," observed 
one of the others. " I've heard they're very 
suspicious of strange ways down there, and 
the Oxford manner they won't stand at any 

" But, my dear chap " 

" Oh, of course I know he's got it pretty 
rank, but it's only more extreme than some 
of the others. Some of them do all sorts of 
wild things and play it most amazin' low 
to catch the fancy of the East-enders. There 
was even a bishop " 

" Oh, yes, we know about that ; but 
Aubrey isn't an advertising bishop, and, more, 
he was never that sort at all. I believe it's 
actual mania — I do, positively. He is East- 
end mad, that's plain. But we'll see him 
again in course of the afternoon." 

Meanwhile, the lady who had been Mrs. 
Fitzmaurice's greatest chum at school and 
her friend, Miss Cust, had lost sight of Mrs. 
Fitzmaurice's • cousin Mary, but presently 
found her in another part of the grounds. 

Before they could speak of the thing them- 
selves she said : " Do you know, Clara's 
husband's here somewhere ? Harry Benyon's 
been talking to him. He's gone clean East- 
end mad, it seems — worse than the Bishop of 
Limehouse. Talks just like a costermonger. 
Isn't it quaint ? I can't think what aunt 
will say ! " 

" Oh, we must speak to him," said Miss 
Cust's friend. " Indeed, we were looking for 
you to introduce him. I never saw him 
before ; I haven't seen Clara for years." 

" I don't know him myself ; the engagement 
was very short, and we were away in Egypt 
at the time of the wedding. Harry Benyon 
promised to find him again for me. Harry 
says he's become quite a curiosity. I hope 
he won't swear very much ! " 

At this moment Harry Benyon hove in 
sight, hauling with him the reluctant Aubrey. 

" I tell y' I'm a-thinkin' out a sermon ! " 
he was heard to protest as he approached. 

" Here you are — I've found him," said 
Harry Benyon. " Mr. Aubrey Fitzmaurice — 
Mrs. Fitzmaurice's cousin Mary, Miss Cust, 
and Miss Peyton." 

" What-oh ! 'Ow do ? " said the Reverend 
Aubrey, shaking hands all round. " My oF 
pal 'Any 'ere, 'e won't let me think out my 
sermon, blimy. Still, as it's laidies " 

" We've been longing to see you for ages." 
said Miss Tyrwhitt. " Tell us all about 
Clara. Why isn't she here ? " 

" Washin' day," said the Reverend Aubrey 

" What ? You don't mean to say that poor 
Clara does her own washing ? " 

" Lummy, no — not all of it. 'Tain't likely, 
is it ? " 

" I shouldn't have thought sol I suppose 
she does a little, just as a sbrt of example to 
the poor women in the parish ? " 

" Right-o ! Got it in once. She does lead 
the fashions — no kid ! " 

" Well, you must both be very devoted, 
I'm sure. And does Clara talk that funny 
way, too ? " 

" Talk funny ?. Rats ! No more'n what 
me an' you do." 

" Oh, well ! But doesn't she find it very 
dull ? " 

" Dull ? Blimy, no ! I ain't the sort to 
be dull with. She don't 'ave time to be dull." 

" Of course, I suppose there's a lot of 
visiting ? " 

" Not 'arf ! She goes a-visitin' every 
day — except washin' day, o' course. An' 
she 'aves 'er pals in to tea, too, sometimes — 
'Oxton pals, 1 gin atfeWDTi Dull? Why, the 




Paragon an 1 the Britannia's close by, an' a But stow all this — no 'ank, I must think 

corkin* movin'-picture show just raand the out that sermon. So long ! See you 

corner — on'y a dee a time I " later*" 

41 Poor Clara ! But there, no doubt she t( But surely you don't think out sermons 

likes it as much as you, I suppose it is in places like this! And here comes your 


necessary to be so very East-end ? I expect 
you find the people appreciate it ? " 

" Fair 


knocks 'em. Me an* the ol' 

" Old what ? M 

44 01 J Dutch ; the delo elrig, you know— the 
storm an* strife ; the missis, I mean — Clara/' 

" Clara ? Oh, don't call her such things 
as that ! " 

* Don't ? Well* what would you call 'er ? 

Digitized by O)0gR" 

aunt ; I expect she's looking for you. Lady 
Bilbury, we've just been introduced to 
Aubrey, and he's suck an East-en dcr ! n 

Lady Bilbury, stout, imposing, and peering 
through an i%'ory-handled lorgnon, came 
sailing toward the group. The Reverend 
Aubrey, with an air of resignation, stayed his 
departure, and then smiled cheerfully as he 
met Lady Bilbury's gaze and plunged to meet 

her " Original from 



" Wotcheer, auntie ! " he cried, and kissed 
her with a loud smack. 

Lady Bilbury, her lorgnon knocked into 
one eye, choked with fury. 

" Go away, Aubrey, you fool ! " she gasped. 
" It's plain you are mad, as everybody says. 
You neglect us all for two years, and then make 
a disgusting public exhibition of yourself like 
this ! You're not fit to be at large ! " 

" 'Ere, cheese it, auntie ! " protested the 
reverend gentleman, somewhat abashed — for 
Lady Bilbury coffld be a very terrible person 
on occasion. " Draw it mild. Don't go 
chewin' the rag afore company. I'll do a 
bunk till your monkey climbs down. Got to 
think out a sermon. Tooraloo ! " 

" The creature's mad ! " said Lady Bilbury, 
flushed and indignant, as her nephew's back 
view vanished in the crowd. " Hopelessly 
crazy ! It's not safe to let him go about ! " 

" He does certainly seem very strange," 
observed Miss Tyrwhitt. " He's been saying 
the most extraordinary things in the most 
peculiar language. I wonder if it's safe for 
Clara to be with him ? " 

" It's the sort of thing some of them do," 
said one of Benyon's friends, who had joined 
the party. " Do in Rome as the Romans 
do, you know, and all that. They call their 
parishioners ' blokes ' and that, and they say 
it goes down wonderfully. There's the 
Bishop of Limehouse, now " 

" Oh, of course, we know the Bishop of 
Limehouse," said Lady Bilbury, smoothing 
her ruffled plumage ; " but he's no excuse 
for Aubrey, and the Bishop does draw the 
line somewhere. He doesn't behave like a 
drunken bargee among his friends. No, it's 
actual mental derangement, I'm sure, and 
what I've expected all along. These absurd 
enthusiasms always lead to something of the 
sort. Something must be done, and quickly ; 
he mustn't be allowed to go about disgracing 
his family." 

" Shall we wire to Clara ? " 

" That would scarcely be of much use. 
This affair would be all over long before she 
could get here. Besides, we're not sure how 
Clara might take it. I hate to say it, my dear, 
but I've a horrid fear she may be almost as 
bad herself, if it's only from constant asso- 
ciation with him. She worshipped him, you 
know, and we've seen nothing of them for 
ever so long, since they went so mad over this 
East-end business. No, the family must 
interfere, and we must really do something 
to restrain him among all these people. 
There will be a perfect scandal. What can 
we do ? We can scarcelv ask Sir Hudson 

Bagg to have him turned out; that would 
make a scene at once. But we really must do 

" He keeps saying he wants to think out a 
sermon," remarked Harry Benyon. " I've 
heard him say it half-a-dozen times at least — 
the sort of cranky, persistent thing they're 
apt to say, you know. I think that's the 
side to take him on. Get Sir Hudson Bagg 
to lend him his study to do his sermon, and 
then lock him in." 

" Excellent, Mr. Benyon — a really admir- 
able suggestion. I'll see Sir Hudson Bagg at 
once." And Lady Bilbury, with recovered 
dignity, sailed off in search of her host. 

Lady Bilbury was one of the great captures 
.of the occasion, and Sir Hudson Bagg, under 
Lady Bagg's instructions, would gladly have 
lent her the whole house for a week if she had 
asked for it. Consequently the mere request* 
of the study for an hour or two was met 
with alacrity, and the faithful Benyon was 
dispatched to decoy the Reverend Mr. 
Fitzmaurice into the toils. The task was easv, 
for nothing, it seemed, could have pleased the 
sermon-cogitator better. 

" That's a little bit of all right," he observed, 
gratefully. " I'm gettin' fed up with all this 
noisy push outside, an' I must get on some'ow 
with that sermon." 

He was seen safely into the study, and a 
trusty servitor of the house was placed just 
without the study door. And with that 
Harry Benyon sought Lady Bilbury to report 
that her reverend nephew was safely with- 
drawn from public notice. 

" It's all right now," he said. " He's put 
away in the study with a new pen and 
a pile of foolscap. I found him talking to 
a newspaper man." 

" A newspaper man, Mr. Benyon ? " ex- 
claimed Lady Bilbury. " But that will never 
do. We shall have all his insanities published 
broadcast — and exaggerated, if that is possible. 
We must find that newspaper man and forbid 
him — absolutely forbid him — to print any- 
thing about Aubrey. Where is he ? " 

Harry Benyon knew where the newspaper 
man had been, but he was not there now, 
nor anywhere else to be seen. The fact was, 
he had found the meeting rather dull copy, 
and, having hit on something much more 
attractive, had now vanished to write up his 
little scoop. 

Meantime, the Reverend Aubrey Fitz- 
maurice was somewhat restless in the study, 
as the trusted servitor in the passage could 
hear. After a little while he appeared sud- 
denly at the door, stared at the servitor for a 

by K: 



u I I I '_• I II 




moment, and then retreated. The 
servitor — called ordinarily simply a 
footman — had been made somewhat 
apprehensive by the mysterious in- 
structions given him ; and when, ten 
minutes later, the door once again 
opened, and mice more the clerical 
gentleman glared wildly at him and 
again disappeared, his apprehensions 
vastly increased. He grew firmly con- 
vinced that he was deputed 
to guard a dangerous mad- 
man, and on the whole he 
judged it expedient to turn 
the key of the study door, 
which he did, with a loud 


click that refused to be stifled. At once the 
door was tried from the inside ; the footman 
retreated to an angle of the passage and 

watched ; and the sequel was 
witnessed from the grounds. 
The study window opened 
on a balcony, which made 
a roof for the veranda of the 
ground floor. The butler was 
in the act of emerging from 
the veranda, bearing a very 
large tray of ices, when he 
was suddenly rooted to the 
spot by the apparition of a 
pair of human legs depend- 
ing from the balcony and 
kicking within an inch of 
his nose. The next instant 
the legs, the body thereto 
attached, the ices, the tray, 
and the butler were In- 
volved in one cataclysmal smash, from 
the thick of which rose the Reverend 
Aubrey F:tjma"4^^^plashed and veined 




pink and cream, and darted across the lawn 
for the nearest shrubbery. 

" Stop him ! " screamed Lady Bilbury, her 
worst fears realized and doubled. 

But nobody made the attempt save one 
portly dean, who, chancing to be in the line 
of flight, extended his arms and for one second 
danced before the fugitive as of yore danced 
the Bishop of Rum-ti-foo. In the next 
second the dean had turned three-quarters 
of a somersault, and the Reverend Mr. 
Fitzmaurice vanished like a harlequin through 
an arbutus. 

H. . 

Next day's issue of that bright little paper, 
the Telephone, contained a bright little 
personal article, contributed by the journal's 
representative at the meeting of the Philan- 
thropic Society for Harassing the Indigent. 
He had, it appeared, " enjoyed an unusual 
opportunity of a chat with that fascinating 
and interesting personality, the Reverend 
Aubrey Fitzmaurice, whose devoted work 
among the poor of his East London parish 
has made his name familiar to all who are 
interested in the upraising of the masses. 
Amid a thousand calls of duty the reverend 
gentleman gladly gave ' 'arf a mo,' to use 
his own picturesque expression, to a few 
remarks on his opinions and experiences. In 
spite of his high connections and his University 
education, he has become one of the people, 
sharing their joys and sorrows, and adopting* 
their simple manners and earnest vocabulary. 
By dint of continued perseverance he has 
completely succeeded in eliminating the 
noxiously undemocratic consonant ' h ' from 
his speech, and he has as carefully assimilated 
the expressive locutions of the down-trodden 
toiler. As he himself says, he finds Stepney 
a fair knock-out, and, although he wears a 
black * I'm afloat ' and ' round the 'ouses 9 
— playful synonyms for coat and trousers — 
he is truly right in the push at 'Oxton. 
Questioned as to the prevalent views, as to 
the localities he loves, the reverend gentleman 
replied with the pregnant monosyllable, 
* Rats ! ' As for himself and his old Dutch — 
an affectionate reference to Mrs. Fitzmaurice 
— residence anywhere else would speedily 
drive them balmy on the crumpet. 

" In regard to the type of pulpit discourse 
he considered best fitted to his parishioners, 
Mr. Fitzmaurice expressed no very particular 
views, beyond a general opinion that the 
preacher should chuck it off his chest with 
no hank, and serve it up very O T — or, as you 
might saw peas in the pot." 

F Cooglc 

Several more paragraphs followed, in which 
a pleasant picture was drawn, from the 
Reverend Aubrey Fitzmaurice's own informa- 
tion, of the devoted vicar traversing his 
parish in cheerful guise, reproving an acquaint- 
ance who seemed elephant's trunk in one 
place, correcting an unruly parishioner else- 
where with one on the I suppose, and farther 
along encountering a tragedy that wrung 
his raspberry tart ; all explained as being 
translatable on the usual principles of rhyming 
slang. And, finally, the vicar was represented 
as he tore himself away from his interviewer 
to prepare an urgently needed sermon. 
" Don't forget," were the parting words of 
this remarkable man, accompanied by a 
cordial shake of the hand, " whenever you're 
near the vicarage, be sure to knock at the 
Rory O'More and give us a chyike ! " 

The Reverend Aubrey Fitzmaurice did not 
see the Telephone that day till he returned to 
the vicarage from a round of visits in the 
afternoon. He read the opening lines of the 
article with some surprise, the rest with a 
growing sense of gasping stupefaction. He 
blinked, gazed at the familiar furniture about 
him, rubbed his eyes, looked at the paper 
again, and finally groped his way to the door 
and called for his wife. 

" Clara," he said, " do read this article 
and tell me what in the world it means, or 
if I'm mad or dreaming." 

" Yes, dear," his wife replied. " I didn't 
know you were in. There are two gentlemen 
waiting to see you in the drawing-room ; they 
were told to call by Lady Bilbury, they say. 
They seem to be doctors, and they've been 
asking the oddest questions about you. And 
I've had a strange letter from my cousin 
Mary. She wants to know if you've been 
home since yesterday, and says she's terribly 
afraid that your work here has upset your^ 
mental balance ! " 

" Has it ? Perhaps it has," replied the 
distracted vicar. " I shouldn't have believed 
it till five minutes ago, when I read that paper. 
Just look at it, Clara, and tell me — do tell 
me — what it all is. Either I am mad or 
somebody writing there is." 


Three streets away from the vicarage, in 
the darkest corner of the bar of the Feathers, 
Snorkey Timms was bitterly reproaching Dido 
Fox for the failure of an attempt on Sir 
Hudson Bagg's household valuables. 

" I said what it 'ud be," snarled Snorkey. 
" You an' your Reverend Aubrey ! There's 
bin no 'oldin'|j^i|ifpince that parson come 




down here and everybody began callin' you 
Aubrey. If Vd V done it, like I wantodj it 
J ud V bin all right. I wouldn't 'a' bin 
nobody in particular, 'cept an anonymarious 
parson in them clothes you've got to pay 
I key Cohen for. I'd V gone in easy enough 
with all that mob an J made no 'ank, an' got 

proud o' yerself an' yer Aubrey, once you 
got the togs you must go an' dress up 
in 'em an' fancy yourself, I s'pose ! So 
o' course the first thing somebody thinks 
J e knows you, an' o' course the next 
thing you go a-jawin J up an 1 down an' — — 
Why, what's the good o* loo kin' like a 


in the place an* done it neat an' quiet. Nobody 
'ud V come talkin' to me, an' if they did 
I wouldn't V give meself away like that. 
'Tam't enough to wear a parson's clobber, you 
idjit ! » 

" But look what a chance it was," protested 
Dido — u me lookin' the very livin' spit of 
im when I've 'ad a wash an' a shave," 

"Chance? Rats! It's lookin' like the 
parson that's busted the show. So mighty 

parson unless you talk like one ? That's 
where I'd 'a' come in. Vd V chucked 'em 
the proper dialogue, I may not look like 
any partic'ler parson, but I can slin^ orf a 
few words classy. J> 

"Classy? You? Rats!" 

" There you are — i rats ' is just what you'd 
say. You've got no polite savvy yer self, so 
you bloom in' well can't see mine* That's 
your ignorance." 

by Google 

Original from 


URIOUSLY enough— for there 
does not seem any ditect con- 
nection between the two— my 
first experience of the serious 
side of business life, the art 
J of earning bread and butter, 
was connected with palettes 
(not palates), for I begun my working career 
as a water-colour artist. All things con- 
sidered, too, I think 1 may claim to have 
made some small strides in this profession, as 
full early my pictures were exhibited at the 
Royal Institute, while I was also fortunate 
enough to find an excellent customer for my 
work in Sir Spencer Wells. 

Shortly afterwards, too, Sir Eardley Wilmot 
proved a good patron to me ; and really, as 
things go in this particular walk of life, I 
suppose I should have accounted myself 
fortunate to have obtained such influential 
recognition so early in my career* True, 
I was not earning a fortune in any sense 
of the word j but at least I was executing 
a sufficient number of commissions to " keep 
the wolf from the door i} by disposing of the 
fruits of my labour. 

Strangely enough, the more success I 
achieved the more resentful I became. 
Naturally, from one point of view, I felt 
extremely gratified at finding a customer, 
but that one point of view was utterly 
subservient to another — the feeling that my 
own pet thoughts, my own pet ideas, the 
fruits of weeks of work, the cherished creations 

Digitized by GoOglc 



Drawings by H. M. Brock, RX 

of my brain, would have to leave me, never 
to return. 

But one day, when I was seriously con- 
sidering whether my artistic feelings as I 
regarded them, would stand the strain of 
being continually parted for ever from their 
sisteT sentiments, the creations of my brain, 
fate , opportunity, chance — call" it what you 
will — decided that I should turn any small 
talents I may 

have possessed 
into another 
direction. This 
strange happen- 
ing occurred, 
curiously enough, 
amid most unro- 
mantic and in- 
artistic surround- 
ings — to be brief, 
in a rather un- 
savoury, none 
too cleanly., most 
London eating- 

It chanced 
that, to satisfy 
the inner man. 
one morning in 
the 'eighties I 
strolled into a 
dirty — to me, 
repellent — little 
London restau- 
rant. These un- 
appetizing estab- 
lishments were 
aim os tin variably 
small, being 
limited in the 
capacities for 
cooking and 
serving of-, -the j^*Ptou*rtti+ ^ ^w^ a^uci 






By Sir Joseph Lyons* 

man and his wife, with, perhaps j one or 
two waiters. They were also almost invari- 
ably dark, stuffy little places, often infested 
with cockroaches ; and as for their kitchens, 
they were things liable to cause nightmares — 
anyway-/ 1 prefer -not to tell of them, The 
City clerk? who wanted a snack had to pay 
fourpence for a cup of coffee or tea, a penny 
tip, and a penny or twopence for a bun, 
It goes without saying that these charges 
were beyond his slender means ; result,, he 
adjourned to the 
nearest bar and had 
a glass of beer. 

Well , on the occa- 
sion to which I refer 
I entered the said 
"restauran t" 
ordered the least 
uninviting dish 1 1 
could hit upon , and 
turned things over . 
in my mind during 
the unconscionably 
long time I had to 
wait for the arrival 
of my repast. I had 
often enough before 
this reflected how 
great fortunes had 
been made by the 
discovery of some 
simple universal 
want waiting to be 
supplied. In a flash 

it came to me that 
I had discovered 
just such a simple 
unsupplied uni ver- 
sa! want — clean 
and decent fare in 
brigh t an d co ngen ial 
surroundings at a 
reasonable price. 

And there and 
then was laid the 
foundation-stone of 
a business which 
now feeds about 
two million of the 
inhabitants of 
London , and which 
on every working 
day. in the year 
caters for over five 
hundred thousand 
111 v n , w o m e n , 
and c h i 1 d r e n — a 
business, too, which 
finds work for nearly sixteen thousand em- 
ployes, which possesses two hundred and fifty 
branches (the number is steadily increasing 
both in London and the provinces), and which 
has no fewer than hundred and twenty 
thousand agents throughout the country 
selling our w wares." Yes, in a small way — 
and I write it with due humility — a chance 
visit of a discontented artist to a dirty 
restaurant has exercised a considerable 
influence, indeed, over the lives of a very 




by Google 

BYSlR J° SBPH drK5Wfalfrom 





large section of men, women, and children in 
Great Britain. 

Anyway, since that day " we " have 
changed the conditions of feeding the public. 
1 write " we," because it was at this time 
that I entered into partnership with Mr, 
Montague Gluckstein, who, in my opinion, 
is one of the cleverest organizers in the 
kingdom, and we have worked together ever 

A positive revolution has taken place 
in the habits of our people. The twopenny 
cup of tea and no tips, ditto, 
ditto, ditto coffee, has done 
wonders. But we never forget 
that man does not live by bread 
alone. Brightness and light, 
music and flowers, civility and 
i leanliness— all these are indispen- 
sable elements in the building up of 
our business. 

Our first coup was at Newcastle 
Exhibition. We engaged M, Baroza, 
the most famous Hungarian violinist 
of his day — a little, ugly, pork- 
marked genius, whose every move- 
ment was like a poem— and with him 
we engaged eight other violinists. 
For that band of first-rate per- 
formers we paid a hundred and ten 
pounds per week during the whole 
time the exhibition was opened. 
People said we wete mad. We had 
no earnings save the profit on the 
twopenny cup. But the refreshment- 
hall was crowded night after night, 
as if it had been a gala performance 
at the opera. We not only got our 
money bark, but made a profit besides. 

From the Newcastle Exhibition we 
M trekked/' to the Glasgow Exhibition. 
There the lessons learned at Newcastle were 
taken advantage of. Hut the distinctive 
feature of the Glasgow success was our 
waitresses. They were chosen from the 
bonniest lasses in all Scotland ; they were all 
arrayed in Marie Stuart costume, and were 
one of the great features of the Exhibition. 
Pretty girls in attendance, tastefully dressed, 
civil and attentive. 

By the way, on the last night of the Glasgow 
Exhibition it became known that the medical 
students of Glasgow and Edinburgh were 
coming in their thousands to paint the place 
red. The police came to me about it and 
offered me whatever protection I thought 
fit. I promptly refused any, I personally 
saw the leaders of the students, told them that 
I relied entirely upon their proper instincts, 

and got their promise that no harm should be 
done to my establishment. Then I handed 
the td/tf over to them. They placed their 
own guards at the doors, admitting only 
whom they chose, and had a nice old time, 
finishing by carrying me should er-hi^h + The 
moral is this — that not a single cup or saucer 
was broken; and our establishment, which 
was the only one which refused police pro- 
tection, was the only one in the exhibition 
where no damage was done. 

I am sure readers of The Strand Magazine 


Mr proper inslin 


would never 
forgive me 
were I to 
trace the 
g r a d u a 
growth of the 
business since 
those days — 
since just 
over twenty- 
odd years 
agt» I started 

with one customer. By ^heer hard work, 
and the fact that I (I mean ; we) set out 
to teach people how to feed cheaply 
and well, that one customer has expanded 
into many millions. I have often been asked 
the secret of this successful increase of clients, 
and it may be of interest, therefore, if I say 
that I t^pjkj [ thAt r ±he real reason of our 




success can be explained in these two 
maxims — ''Never bite off more than 
you can chew" (quite an appropriate 
motto for us !) and u Advertising's 
a good thing if you're advertising a 
good thing,'* We had the " good 
thing," we advertised the " good thing," 
the man in the street liked it ; 
found it a " good thing " — 
and came back again. 

It may be of interest tf I 
say that every member of 
our staff has to work his way 
up from the bottom, I have, 
at the present time, over 
twenty nephews of my own in 
the service. Every one of began at the bottom. 
Let me, in imagination, take 
you through one of our 
kitchens. You see those two 
young cooks, with caps on 
their heads and the usua" 
white uniform, who are 
working forty to the dozen ? 
They are my nephews. 
There is not a superinten- 
dent in the whole of our 
establishment who has not 
begun life as a waiter, 

But a truce to commerce, 
with its attendant delights 
and disappoint- 
ments. Let 
me turn to 
less strenuous ^ 
subjects. Let 




ample, try to 

tell you about a few of the re- 
flections which are the outcome 
of an exceedingly arduous career. In 
the first place, it hus been said that 
we twentieth-centuryites are too prone 
to indulge to excess in the good things 
of the table — a charge, alas ! for which 
I have been frequently held largely 

Is this true ? I think not, Every age 
has its fad , and the twentieth century 
is essentially an a^e of fads. Almost 
daily articles appear in the papers 
discussing the question as to 
exactly what quantity of food the 
human frame inquires to keep it strong 
and healthy, while some enterprising 
experimentalists go so far as 
to declare that the by no sir joskph 
means magnificent sum of four- a " vanity 

VoL xk- 2S. 

pence a day is quite large enough to 
procure nourishing food for even the 
heaviest of eaters. 

Now, 1 may as well say at once 
that I am by no means in accord 
with those who assert that the 
Englishman \s 3 in these days, prone 
to over-eating* The 
question is, I think, 
not so much one of 
over-eating as of cook- 
ing. The average 
Englishman of the pre- 
sent day merely insists 
upon his food being 
well-cooked and well- 
served ; in times 
<rone by he was not 
m> particular. But 
to-day he may, I 
think, be looked upon 
as a connoisseur where 
his meals are concerned, 
and from my experience 
f can conscientiously say 
that, as a nation, neither 
the English, Scotch, Welsh, 
nor Irish deserve to be 
railed gluttons. 

The fact of the matter is 
that within the last twenty 
or thirty years a great 
change has come over the 
public taste where food is 
concerned. People have be- 
come more Continental in 
their appetites, and the plain, 
substantial fare that appealed 
to their fathers has now but 
few attractions for a large 
section of the public. 

More over j I have a shrewd 
idea that the man who dines 
off a plain steak or chop, 
with vegetables, bread, butter, 
and cheese, probably actually 
partakes of more solid food 
than his more fastidious 
brother who turns his atten- 
tion to a five, six, seven, or 
eight course dinner. 

No j so far as the upper and 
middle classes are concerned, I do 
not think that the charge of over- 
eating is a just one. No doubt 
they spend a good deal more 
money in restaurants than 
lyons, as sKKrOfiiiginitATOfliyj but that does nut^ 
fair - c^j^Qg^^jy ^p^^^^ean that 

2 7 4 


either eat or drink more. The real explana- 
tion lies in the fact that the restaurant of 
the present day can do much more for its 
customers than the old-fashioned eating-house 
was able to do. 

Then j again, the British workman has 
recently had the charge of over-eating levelled 
at him. Now, I can conscientiously say that 
in his case also, as in the case of the " world 
of wealth and fashion/' this accusation of 
gluttony is a most unfair one. The British 
workman — and under this head I include all 
workers of Great Britain — is 5 li collectively " 
speaking j a conscientious, hard-working man- 
He has perforce to arise betimes, and, whether 
he is employed in factory or ware- 
house, the manual labour he has 
to perform necessarily induces a 
healthy appetite. 

In a small way I have ever been 
a close observer and student of 
human nature. And surely no more 
interesting study has ever existed. 
As a business man, too, I have 
naturally been brought into contact 
with all sorts and conditions of 


blasi in the extreme, and the thought crossed 
my mind that a peep into another side of 
life — into a side of life of which they had 
probably seen next to nothing— would no 
doubt do them a deal more good than sitting 
up until the small hours of the morning, 

I therefore said to them : " Do you want 
to have the time of your lives ? It will cost 
you something. Are you willing to spend a 
couple of pounds a head ? I guarantee you 
will never forget the experience as long as 
you live, I am willing to put in a similar 
sum. and so make six pounds for the outing.'* 
The young fellows, who had been dining and 
wining, were rather puzzled, but eventually 

kinrf^lhe sleepers '■ 

people. One or two stories of actual ex- 
perience of these said people may, therefore, 
not be out of place. 

I remember some years ago two young 
Oxford students, who had been dining late, 
saying that as the hours of closing would 
compel them to be turned out at 12,30 a.m« T 
they would like to put in another couple of 
hours and go to some supper club where they 
could, as they expressed it, "do as they 
liked — within reasonable bounds, of course/ 1 
and have the time of their lives. The two 
undergraduates in question already looked 

agreed to share in the adventure. M First " 
1 said, " we must change our gold into half- 
crowns." Then, each carrying sixteen half- 
crowns in our pockets, we sallied forth shortly 
after midnight. 

11 Where are you taking us ? " they said, 
1 replied that I thought that a short walk to 
cool their brains would probably do them no 
particular harm. And thus we wended our 
way down to the Embankment, where, on a 
Saturday night, the homeless and destitute, 
life's outcasts who have nothing else to hope 

for flftwSw wmml» endeavour to 




find temporary oblivion by making their beds 
on the cold , bard seats. 

Beginning at Westminster, I and my two 
young Oxford friends walked slowly along the 
Embankment from seat to scat, waking the 
sleepers, hearing their stories, and distributing 
the half-crowns. The students, who were 
excellent young fellows at 
heart, soon entered into the 
spirit of the thing, and not 
only cheerfully and cheerily 
distributed their sixteen half- 
crowns each, but gave away 
three or four pounds more 
— all the money they had 
with them T so that eventu- 
ally it became necessary for 
them to walk home to their 
hotel. I left them 
at the door, and they 
both thanked me 
heartily for being the 
means of enabling 
them to get a glimpse 
at " how the other 
half of the world 

I( Well, you know 
%vhat 1 s what," they 
said, as they bade me 
good* night "We 
never enjoyed any- 
thing so much be- 
fore/* They had had 
their money's worth 
in the pleasure they 
gave to other people. 
I fancy that visit to 
the Embankment 
gave those two 
youthful merry- 
makers far more real 
pleasure than sitting 
up for six nights and 
days could possibly 
have done. 

Yes ? to the real observer of life— and I 
hope and think I may number myself in this 
category — there is a never-ending field for 
interesting and profitable — morally, at least 
— observation. Another little story. Not 
very long ago I was going down Piccadilly 
when I felt I was being shadowed by someone. 
I looked round and saw a small boy following 
me closely and watching me. To ascertain 
what it was he wanted I turned sharply round 
upon him- Before I could speak the little 
nipper said to me: " Ain't you done with it 
yetj guv'nor ? You 11 be burning your 


you done wi 
it yet t £uv"r\or ? 

moustache it you smoke it much longer." 
u What do you mean, my boy ? " said L 
t( Well/ 1 said he^ " my father is a cripple at 
home. He can't afford no tobacco, but, oh I 
he do love a smoke, and I have been follering 
you, sir, waiting for you to throw away the 
end of your cigar," The little nipper was 

only nine years old, 
and he had walked 
the length of Picca- 
dilly with the wistful 
yearning to obtain 
the fag-end of a 
cigar for his crippled 
father at home. 

Another happen- 
i n g in connection 
with my experiences 
of the extremes of 
hunger among the 
poor stands out very 
vividly in my 
memory. Some years 
ago Mr, George R. 
Sims proposed to me 
that I should give 
away one of the 
Referee cheques, 
which that journal 
was at that time pre- 
senting to certain of 
the public w T ho were 
carrying the paper in 
various localities, I 
gladly consented to 
do so, and selected 
as the thoroughfare 
a road leading from 
Hyde Park Corner through 
Knightsbridge. The announce- 
ment had appeared in the 
Referee to the effect that two 
guineas would be given to the 
twentieth person who was 
found carrying a copy of the 
newspaper in his hand. 
Bent on performing my duties in a 
thoroughly conscientious manner, I accord- 
ingly started out. After some dozen holders 
of the paper had passed I noticed a man, 
apparently very much down on his luck, 
laughing in the cheeriest manner possible as 
he gazed with hungry eyes into the w*ell- 
stocked window of a restaurant. The man's 
laughter was so hearty and full of that real 
appreciation of the humour of something 
which invariably prompts genuine laughter 
that I walked up Lu him and ventured to ask 
him wbtthdrR6bT iTOuld rfuire his joke with 



me., to which he replied, with a merry twinkle 
in his hungry eye (if ever a man appeared 
to want a good square meal, I was talking to 
that man then), " I'm laughing, because I'm 

" You don't look mad/' I answered* 

" That's as it may be," he said ; " but I 
am mad , all the same — as mad as anyone in 
Bedlam, and that is why 1 am laughing. 
And mark you, sir/ 1 he added, hastily, u I 
can prove the truth of my words/' 

" How can you do that ? " I said, 

f Just as easily 

as rolling off a 
log," he said, 
with the merry 
twinkle still in 
his eye, M All 
last week I was 
not able to get a 
stroke of work to 
do. In fact, as 



man to man. 


may tell you that 
I have not slept 
in a bed for a 
week, neither 
have I tasted a 
bite of food 
since yesterday. 
Yesterday was a 
lucky day for 
me," he added, 
as an after- 
thought, " for I 
actually found an 
eatable crust in 
the gutter ; and 
but very few 
crusts that one 
picks up in the 
gutter are eat- 
able, vou know." 

The man *s 
sense of humour 
was infectious, 
but the pathos of 
the whole thing 
was too sad for words; so that 
for fear of appearing weak, I made 
no reply. 

£t Well j now you want to know why I'm 
mad,' 1 continued my friend, for as such I was 
beginning to regard him, " Well, I'll tell 
you. Here am I standing before this window. 
That'- plain rnmt.uh. isjft it ? And I'm 
devilish hungry. And to appease that hunger 
all I have to do is to break the window and 
■neak as much (ood as I can cat. And that^ 

not the only beauty of the whole thing, for 
if I break the window I should get a night's 
lodging in the police-station and food and 
shelter thrown in. But I don't do it. Why 
don't I do it ? Because Pm mad — stark, 
staring mad ! " And the man broke out into 
another peal of laughter. 

41 But surely you see that it would be a pity 
to break the poor man's window," I ventured 
to remark, H because, after all, he hasn't done 
you any harm." 

(f I suppose that's the real reason of my 
madness," said the man* 
" Providence helps those 
,* who help themselves — I 

n* rtt*o know that well enough ; 

and yet, fool that I am, 
I'm not helping myself* 
I must be half- 
witted, don't 
you think, sir ? " 
he added , plain- 
tively, as, for the 
first time during 
our conversation, 
the pangs of 
hunger began to 
get the better of 
his sense of 

A few minutes 
later, like a 
hungry wolf., my 
friend was enjoy- 
ing a good meal. 
All the same, I 
think it would 
have made but 
little difference to 
him had the meal 
been of the most 
indifferent kind. 
I think you'll 
agree with me 
that the study of 
human life is 
often a very, very 
sad study* Even 
as I write a Gil- 
bertian idea 
crosses my mind 
that the happiest millionaire in London — 
nay, in the world — would be he, granted the 
facilities, who would spend some part of his 
millions in opening restaurants on the 
Embankment and elsewhere where all and 
sundry of London's homeless and starving 
could hv provided with food free, gratis, and 



Is it easy to educate the public ? The 
question is a particularly interesting one. 
Personally, as an individual expression of 
opinion 7 I think the public is very easily 
educated, if you go the right way about it. 
The change, for instance, that has been made 
in the habits of the London working men in 
the last twenty years is amazing. It is due 
to three causes. First, to the Council schools ; 
secondly, to the shortening of the hours of 
work ; thirdly, to the improvements of the 
feeding of the working classes. Twenty years 
ago, if you sat opposite any building in process 
of erection, you would see the children 
coming up at twelve and one o'clock with 
their dinner-cans. Their fathers would come 
out all grimy and dirty, and sit down on the 
nearest plank and rush through their food, 
and then spend the rest of the dinner-hour in 
the nearest public-house. 

Now you will find the working man dining 
in the evening with his family. The " dinner- 
pail" is no longer brought to him at midday 
by his children, but he goes to the nearest 
cheap restaurant, gets a cup of good tea or 
coffee and some bread-and-cheese, or a snack 
of something else ; then he sits reading the 
newspaper and talking with his mates until 
the dinner-hour is over. There has been 
an enormous improvement in the victualling 
of the public. Food is better, food is cheaper, 
cooking is better, and the result is that there 
is less drinking, and the father and family 
dine together in the evening. 

By the way, I wonder whether the fact 
that life is one of the greatest paradoxes 
imaginable has ever crossed your mind ? It 
has crossed mine on many an occasion, and in 
passing has left behind it a feeling of sadness. 
I take it that among the majority of workers 
in this world the salient hope is to make money 
— lots of money, barrels, tons of money — for 
few of us are satisfied with a sufficiency. 
But then, of course, we don't know what a 
sufficiency of money is. 

Within recent years many men and women 
have come to me and have said : " You must 
be a very happy man ; you have made money 
out of your business." Was ever cause and 
effect so greatly misconstrued ? To think 
that money makes happiness is to think as 
one bereft of reason. All the money in the 
world would not bring any living soul a step 
nearer to happiness than would the possession 
of the fastest racing motor-car bring the earth 
nearer to the moon. If I have discovered one 
thing worth the finding in a st/enuous life 
it is that it is " Hope," the longing for what 

is usually the unattainable, that is the fairy 
godmother of happiness. 

And yet I can remember the day when, 
like so many others, I fondly believed that a 
small measure of success in business would 
make me the happiest man in the world. I 
know now what a big mistake I made. I was 
as happy as an ambitious young artist, every 
whit as happy as I am to-day. 

Once upon a time I fancied that, did 
my means permit, I would become the 
owner of yachts and other expensive toys. 
" These luxuries," I thought to myself, 
" will provide me with hobbies which must 
make me the happier." Curious, isn't it ? 
My business still remains my baby. Only a 
few days ago someone said to me : " Suppose 
you were ten times richer than Rockefeller. 
What would you do ? " The memory of the 
castles in the air I used to build crossed my 
mind as I replied : " Cover England with 
hospitals, the most magnificent hospitals the 
world has ever seen. That is the first thing I 
should do." But castles in the air at all times 
of one's life are futile things, aren't they ? 

However, enough of my humble hopes and 
aspirations, doubts and fears. Let me see 
whether it is not possible that my experience 
may prove of some real practical value to 
readers of The Strand Magazine. 

I am often asked whether I consider that 
there are as many promising openings in 
business to-day as there were, say, fifteen 
or twenty years ago. My reply is: "The 
twentieth-century business man must be a 
man of ideas ; he must wait until he sees 
his chance, and then seize it with lightning 
rapidity." The old, humdrum days of busi- 
ness are, to all intents and purposes, as 
defunct as our good Queen Anne. Therefore 
the business man of to-day must remember 
that if he will " make good " he must 
possess three qualifications — Concentration, 
Originality, and Continuity. 

To parents who are perplexed as to what 
to do with their sons I would therefore say : 
" Bring them up to appreciate the value of 
ideas; give them that tuition which will help 
them to become keen, clear-brained business 
men. If you do this your boys will prove 
the truth of my contention that there arc 
as many openings in business to-day as ever 
there were. The openings are not the same 
— that goes without saying — but they exist 
all the same." 

The watchword of the young man of to-day 
should be " Anticipation." In that one word 
lies the secret of success. 


Tne Guardian of the 
Left Flank. 


Illustrated by Christopher CIark„ R.L 


M Sayonara,'* replied the 
old man, and grasped his 
son's hand. ," I am old, 
and it will not be long to 
wait. It is well that both 
my sons shall greet me 
when I cross over*** 

The little wrinkled woman with the close- 
cropped grey head rose from the cushions on 
which she was seated, and going to her son 
put both her hands on his shoulders and 
looked long into his face. He led her gently 
back to her cushions and made her sit down, 
then he knelt on one knee and took the 
brown, wizened face between his hands, 

11 As the father says, it will not he long to 
wait, mother. Sayonara." 

She tried hard to speak, to .smile at him ; 
her bony hands gripped his arms, her whole 
frame seemed to stiffen in its effort to keep 

back her pent emotions. Then, in an instant, 
old age and mother-love hud conquered ; she 
raised the ample sleeves of her kimono before 
her face and fell forward on her cushions, 
sobbing convulsively. 

Captain Osaka rose to his feet and turned 
to the little girl in the rainbow-silk kimono, 

" Sayonara, my beloved," 

She, too, came close to him and held his 
arms and looked tensely into his face. He 
was a little man, even for a Japanese, and 
their eyes were level. For a long moment 
they stood thus, " Sayonara, my lord," she 
replied at last in a strangled whisper. 

She and the old man stood in the doorway 
and watched the dapper, blue-uniformed 
figure go down the street, and when Osaka 
was about to turn the corner and looked 
round, she waved her hand and cried > 
" Banzai I" 

That w&ihkifal^Hlnpse of her, a diiinty 
Kttl0|flOTIE^^ in the 



sunny doorway and smiling bravely as she 
waved to him. None who witnessed this 
parting would have guessed that to him that 
smile had been more heartrending than tears, 
or that the smiling girl in the doorway had 
a moment later collapsed moaning on the 
matted floor within. 

This was the second parting. Mirami had 
first said good-bye to her lover when he left 
for the " front " three weeks after the marriage. 
She had never expected to see him again, but 
the gods had been kind, and had sent him 
back to her. While his wound healed she had 
prayed feverishly that the war would end 
before her husband was well enough to go to 
the front again. By day she had smothered 
the shrine with flowers, and by night had 
crept out and made it gay with rushlights and 
coloured sweetmeats. But it was all in vain, 
the gods were deaf ; perhaps the dread God 
of War had overawed them. 

Osaka's father, the old Samurai, was 
crippled with rheumatism, yet he hobbled 
restlessly about the house and garden for the 
greater part of the afternoon ; at last he 
announced his intention of going down to the 

" I go not to see him again," he explained 
to the two women; " the boy was right when 
he said that public partings make for weak- 
ness ; but I would see this wonderful gun of 
his which is the talk of all Sasebo. This 
strange thing will I see from the barrier, 
without entering." 

The excuse was a transparent one, for 
hitherto nothing would induce the old man 
to go near the quay. He was a warrior of 
the old school who had fought in armour in 
his day, and like many of his class he was 
an irreconcilable. He resented fiercely all 
modern innovations. The sword had been 
good enough for him and for his ancestors for 
countless generations, and now the sword had 
fallen to second place. Men hid in holes now 
and killed each other from a great distance 
with these new-fangled Western weapons. 
Thus was war robbed of all honour. Where 
was the glorious sword-fight of old, the 
lightning-play of the swordsman, the music of 
steel on steel, the thunder of the stamping 
feet of ten thousand mailed warriors ? It 
was in vain that Osaka had argued that these 
methods of warfare would spell annihilation 
to-day ; the old man only became more 
unreasonable and irritable. 

The sight which met the veteran's eyes 
when he reached the quay filled him with 
amazement, for he had never before seen a 
modern steamship at close quarters. What 

struck him most was the immensity of the 
thing. The side of the lifler towered up from 
the edge of the quay like a great steel battle- 
ment. How huge, too, were the funnels 
through which the monster seemed to breathe ! 

But the old man had come to get a last 
glimpse of his son ; he pushed through the 
crowd which surged against the railings, and 
at last caught sight of him. He was directing 
a crowd of men who were swarming round a 
strange object on the ground. This object 
appeared to be a gigantic and massive 
cylinder of steel ; in thickness it was almost 
the height of a man at one end, but it tapered 
down considerably towards the other. Osaka's 
father glanced at this quizzically for a moment, 
then his gaze returned to his son. He watched 
every movement of the dapper figure. Never 
for a moment did his keen non-committal 
eyes leave it, until suddenly it was lost to 
view, as* the crowd of workers sprang apart. 
His son had shouted the order : " Stand 
clear!" Next moment there was a tremen- 
dous jarring, clanging sound, as the steam- 
crane lifted the giant howitzer into the air. 
The gay, kimono-clad crowd around the 
barriers broke into a roar of " Banzai ! " as 
the monster hung between earth and sky. 
Never before had such a gun been seen in 
Sasebo ; the hundreds of field-pieces which 
had been embarked there seemed mere 
pencils in comparison to it. 

Close to the old Samurai a soldier was 
saying good-bye across the barrier to a 
smiling little geisha in a cerise and gold 
kimono. She at the moment was gazing up 
in awe at the grim object suspended in mid-air. 

" Oh, how huge, how wonderfully great is 
the gun ! " she exclaimed. 

" Yes, and think how the Rooskis will like 
the shell which it throws," he replied, smiling. 

" Oh, where is the shell ? " she asked. " I 
would love to see the shell ; it must indeed be 
a great ball to fit that huge mouth." 

The soldier laughed boisterously. " It is 
no ball, Musibo," he replied ; " it is a great, 
conical-shaped shell, nearly as tall as you ; it 
weighs five hundred and fifty pounds, and the 
gun can throw it ten thousand yards — about 
six miles." 

The little maiden looked at him in amaze- 
ment and gasped. 

" Oh, how wonderful ! how wonderful ! " 
she exclaimed. 

The soldier gave her a grateful smile. 

The crane swung its heavy burden round 
gently until it rested over the hold of the ship, 
then slowly the thick steel cables began to 
unwinfl^^ disappeared 



from view. Once more the shouts of 
" Banzai ! " rent the air. 

The old man's gaze fell aga^n to the quay 
in search of his son. Captain Osaka was now 
striding up and down not far off, while his 
junior was collecting and 
marshalling the gun section. 

" There/' said the soldier, in- 
dicating Osaka with a quick 
glance of admiration, " is 
the Commander of the 
Gun. He knows every 
screw and bolt and thread 
of it , even as a watchmaker 
knows the inside of a watch. 
See, he has the Samurai 
sword ; his father, who still 
lives, is the old Samurai 
Okamoto, and our captain 
is a chip of the old 

"How smart and 
hand some he is!' 1 
replied the geisha 
with a sigh, her 
eyes following the 

" I must go 
now ; sec, the 
section is falling 
in," said the 
soldier. " Sayo* 
nara, H u s i b o 

She took a 
carnation from 
her hair and 
held it out to 
him, smilinp 

she replied. " Kill many Rooskis before 
you return." 

He placed the flower inside his cap and said 
something in an undertone which was evi- 
dently complimentary, for the geisha broke 


UM', \S niK STEAM-CR \m: 




into a merry laugh which expressed, as clearly 
as if she had spoken it, the exclamation : 
" O flatterer ! " 

The soldier, still smiling, saluted, then turned 
and doubled across the enclosure to where 
the men of the gun section were falling in. 

Soon afterwards Osaka's junior came up to 
him and reported with a salute that the gun 
section was " present and correct." The 
captain acknowledged the salute, then walked 
briskly to where the section had fallen in. 
He gave a sharp word of command, and the 
party marched off and began to ascend the 
gangway which bridged the space between the 
quay and the troopship. Captain Osaka 
stood at the foot of the gangway until all his 
men had passed up, then he too turned and 
mounted. At the top he turned again, and 
stood there for several moments surveying the 
crowd. His eyes swept up and down the 
closely-packed bairier as if he half expected 
to see some familiar face. Perhaps he felt 
the earnest gaze of the old man whose eyes 
were riveted upon him. The crowd recog- 
nized him as the officer in charge of the gun, 
and broke again into a roar of " Banzai ! " 
Osaka had not bargained for this : he 
saluted and disappeared hastily behind the 
black bulwarks. 

Okamoto backed slowly out of the crowd. 
He felt suddenly very old and very tired ; he 
must get back home and tell them all about it. 
The words of the soldier and of the geisha 
kept repeating themselves in his brain : " A 
chip of the old block, knows every screw and 
every bolt," and the geisha : " So smart and 
so handsome." Yes, they would be pleased 
to hear of this ; perhaps he would bring 
them back to see the last of the ship — it sailed 
at midnight. Why not ? There was no harm 
in standing behind the barriers. 

But when he got back he felt almost too 
exhausted and generally done up to talk, and 
while he was telling them about his adventures 
he fell asleep. When he awoke the sunlight 
was streaming through the creeper-clad 
window, and the Deshima Maru was far 
away, steaming northwards through the 
Inland Sea. 


From the Chinese farm far out on the plain 
the landscape looking northwards was a grand 
and desolate one. Range upon range of snow- 
clad, conical-peaked mountains. In the deep 
valleys between the mountains pine-forests 
nestled, and here and there sparse battalions 
of pine and fir struggled up the steep slopes 
towards the rocky summits. 

Vol xlv.-29. 

Through the ranges resounded continually 
the tremendous thunder of big guns, and, as 
an accompaniment, a faint, persistent, mut- 
tering sound, which told of distant rifle-fire. 
Punctuating this uproar at short and irregular 
intervals was a peculiar, harsh, peremptory 
rah-ta-ta-ta-ta-taa — the distinctive stammer 
of a machine-gun. At times, when several 
of these sinister weapons were " talking " 
simultaneously, their clamQur lent a strange, 
defiant note to the din. 

All these sounds assailed the ears of the 
A.D.C. who was standing in the doorway of 
the farmhouse and looking out towards the 

" Is he coming ? " asked a deep voice from 

The A.D.C. raised the field-glasses which 
were suspended round his neck by a thin 
leather strap, and looked at a point where a 
deep gorge debouched on the plain. 

" Not yet, sir," he replied over his shoulder, 
lowering his glasses. He turned again, lit a 
cigarette, and resumed his watch. 

The sun was far down in the west, and the 
weak rays reflected by the snow tinged the 
grim panorama before him with a thousand 
shades of crimson. The azure shadows which 
lay in the valleys seemed to deepen by con- 
trast, and in one narrow gorge, screened by a 
great, conical-shaped peak, they had turned 
to a wonderful indigo blue. 

For several minutes the young staff officer 
stood there, lost in the beauty of it all ; then 
with a start he pulled himself together and 
raised his field-glasses again. This time his 
inspection was rewarded. Galloping towards 
him over the plain was a single horseman. He 
focused him carefully through the powerful 
glasses and saw by the uniform that he was 
an artillery officer ; then he turned and 
announced, with a salute : " Captain Osaka 
is coming now, sir." 

Osaka entered somewhat breathless after 
his hard ride. As he saluted the general he 
noticed that several divisional commanders 
and brigadiers were present. They, in 
company with a number of staff officers, were 
leaning over a large trestle table in the middle 
of the room. The door leading into the next 
room was ajar, and through it came a murmur 
of modulated voices. Glancing in that direc- 
tion, Osaka caught a glimpse of a row of 
telephone orderlies seated facing the wall at a 
long, narrow trestle table. They appeared to 
be working at high pressure ; each had a 
receiver strapped over his head, the sound- 
discs covering his <*airs, and in front of him a 
telephone instrument, ^ 



An orderly passed continually to and fro 
between the telephone room and the room in 
which Osaka stood ; each time he entered the 
latter he handed one of the staff officers a 
paper which appeared to be a written message. 
The officer would glance through it quickly, 
then turn and bend over the table. What he 
did there Osaka was unable to make out, as 
the table was almost hidden from view by the 
officers who stood round it. 

Dusk was approaching, and at an order 
from one of the staff an orderly entered and 
lit a large acetylene lamp which hung over the 
centre of the table from a massive, soot- 
covered beam overhead ; the lamp was fitted 
with a large, conical shade, and threw down a 
brilliant circle of light. The general and his 
chief of staff moved to the head of the table, 
and Osaka joined the group standing round it. 
As he had expected, a large map was pinned 
out on the table,and on this map were hundreds 
of little paper flags which represented the 
positions of the opposing forces. The 
Russians were represented by black flags, and 
the Japanese by a miniature replica of their 
national flag, i.e., white, with a rising sun in 
red inset in the lower half. 

The farm was connected by telephone with 
the headquarters of every large unit in the 
field, and, in addition, just behind the firing 
lines, hundreds of specially-trained observers, 
carrying field telephones, reported continually 
the progress of the battle. The constant 
stream of messages thus pouring in were 
quickly sifted in the telephone room, and then 
passed by an orderly to the staff officer most 
nearly concerned. If a unit miles away 
advanced or retired, the flag which repre- 
sented it on the map made a corresponding 
move. Thus the general could, merely by 
glancing at the map, see at any time how the 
attack was progressing. 

Osaka studied this bird's-eye representation 
of the battle then in progress with the keenest 
interest. The Russian position faced south ; 
they were holding about twenty miles of a 
chain of mountains which ran almost due east 
and west. Their right flank was strongly 
posted on a broad river, and their left on the 
end of the range where it rose abruptly from 
the plain. On the map the two irregular lines 
of flags, the black and the white, ran parallel 
along the whole length of the position, but at 
one end, the east, Osaka saw with delight 
that a group of white flags had advanced right 
on to the Russian position. 

The chief of staff pointed to this group of 
flags. " Gentlemen, as you see/' he said, 
"the enemy is holding us along the whole 

front, but here we have partially succeeded in 
turning his left flank. The general intends to 
push this advantage with every available man. 
To accomplish this, it will be necessary to 
weaken our centre and left, for the general 
reserve will not be used until later. The 
troops required from these sections will march 
to-night. Detailed written instructions on 
this point will presently be issued to ail con- 
cerned. The general wishes you to impress on 
all unit commanders of the centre and left the 
vital necessity of showing a bold front and of 
continuing the attack in order to deceive the 
enemy as to our altered dispositions. When 
the turning movement has succeeded the 
whole line will press forward, and the general 
reserve will be thrown in to complete the 
defeat of the Russians. These are the broad 
lines of the general's plans ; the members of 
the staff will now issue to you your individual 
orders. That will do, gentlemen, thank 

The group round the table broke up and 
moved away, but Osaka waited expectantly. 
He had not yet been told why he had been 
sent for. The chief of staff looked up sud- 
denly and called his name, and then, seeing 
him close at hand, exclaimed : " Oh, there 
you are ! Come round here, will you ? " 
Osaka moved round the table and stood beside 
him. " This is what the general wants you to 
do," said the chief of staff, bending over the 
map and pointing to a bridge over the river. 
" That bridge must be destroyed at dawn 
to-morrow. It is of vital importance that this 
should be done without fail, for, if our turning 
movement succeeds, some of the enemy will 
fall back westwards and escape across it. In 
any case, it affords them facilities for a counter- 
attack round our left, a very likely move, I 
think. None of our guns here can reach the 
bridge, which, as you see, is defiladed from 
direct fire by those hills. It was for this 
reason that your howitzer was wired for and 
the line cleared to make way for it." 

Osaka studied the map, and saw that the 
bridge was behind the extreme right of the 
Russian position, and appeared to be over five 
miles from the Japanese line. 

" The brigadier reports that there is only 
one point from which the bridge can be seen/' 
continued the chief of staff. He pointed to a 
hill on the map. " This is the point. I am 
afraid that it is rather a forward position for 
your gun, but we must risk that. After all, 
the gun will be firing from behind the hill, and 
the enemy might not be able to locate it. The 
C.R.A. telephoned to<iay to the effect that he 
had found an excellent jN3fitiion on good, rocky 



ground, and that the epaulement will be ready 
for the gun before you get there." 


The great gun was in position at last ; it 
had taken an entire infantry battalion the 
whole night to get it there. In fact, for the 
last few hundred yards up the long slope to the 
foot of the hill, the services of another battalion 
had to be requisitioned, as the human gun- 
teams, which had been toiling all night in the 
snow, were completely exhausted, and men 
were falling in their tracks. The soldiers 
worked willingly to get the howitzer into 
position, for well they knew what a powerful 
auxiliary it would be. 

Osaka found that the C.R.A. had been as 
good as his word, for not only was the epaule- 
ment ready for the gun, but a field telephone 
had been laid to the top of the hill, where a 
cunningly hidden bomb-proof shelter had been 
erected for the use of the " observer. " It was 
from this spot that the fire of the gun would be 
directed. When Osaka, accompanied by a 
telephone orderly, reached the shelter, the 
stars were still blazing from a clear, frosty 
sky, and all that could be seen of the landscape 
were the grey, ghostly outlines of some of the 
nearer snow-clad peaks. There was nothing 
to be done save to sit down and wait for the 

To Osaka it seemed that that first faint 
flush on the mountain-tops which heralded the 
coming of dawn would never appear. 

Suddenly the telephone orderly gave an 
exclamation, and pointed to a faint object far 
up in the sky behind them. This object 
appeared to be a tiny, dim crescent of light. 
It was the captive balloon, and the crescent of 
light was caused by the sun's rays striking its 
varnished globe of yellow silk. Owing to its 
great height above the earth the balloon 
caught these rays while the mountains below 
were still in shadow. A few minutes later 
the long-looked-for tinge of rose appeared on 
the highest peaks. The azure shadows fled 
swiftly into the valleys, then in an instant a 
lofty, snow-clad pinnacle gleamed like a living 
coal, the sun-fire leapt from peak to peak ; it 
was as if an auroric curtain had been suddenly 
lowered to just below the levels of the peaks, 
and had set them all aflame. But in a few 
moments the red-gold beacons paled to silver, 
the grey light swept the valleys, and it was 

As soon as Osaka could discern the bridge 
he took the range of it carefully with the 
range-finder he carried ; the distance was, as 
near as possible, nine thousand seven hundred 

yards. After checking it several times he 
moved to the telephone to issue instructions 
to the gun section below. Just at that 
moment the bell rang. Osaka took up the 
receiver and a breathless voice greeted him* 

" Halloa ! halloa ! Are you there ? " 

" Halloa ! Yes," replied Osaka. 

" Is that Captain Osaka ? " 

" Yes ; who is speaking ? " 

" C.R.A. this end. Balloon reports large 
body of cavalry and horse artillery moving 
behind hills in direction of bridge. Have you 
got the range ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Splendid ! Balloon's report says force 
looks like a Cossack division : it has a strong 
advanced guard thrown out. This advanced 
guard was about two miles east of the bridge 
about twenty minutes ago, so you haven't 
much time to lose." 

" Very good, sir." Osaka's voice betrayed 
his delight. The enemy was about to make a 
turning movement, as the chief of staff had 
expected, and he, Osaka, was to be instru- 
mental in stopping it. 

He rang up his subaltern, who was at the 
foot of the hill, and issued concise instructions 
as to the laying of the gun. Much depended 
on this first shot. In a few minutes his subal- 
tern replied that all was ready. 

Osaka turned his field-glasses on the bridge 
and waited ; in a few minutes a small party of 
horsemen came into view. He saw at a glance, 
from their little shaggy ponies and their 
equally distinctive shaggy-looking head-dress, 
that they were Cossacks. They crossed the 
bridge at a canter, first by twos and threes 
and then in little groups of a dozen 01 more at 
a time. But Osaka did not fire — he was 
waiting for larger game. Nor had he long to 
wait. Soon a solid body of horsemen riding 
in close formation, four abreast, came into 
view. It was the head of the main body ; the 
commander evidently considered that he was 
in no danger, and that it was, therefore, 
unnecessary to assume a less compact and, 
therefore, less vulnerable formation. 

Still the little gunner waited, telephone in 
hand, and it was not until the entire length of 
the bridge was thronged with a dense column 
of horsemen that he at last gave the order to 

The whole hill shook with the force of the 
explosion, and Osaka watched anxiously for 
the result of the shot. A huge column of 
water leapt up just beyond the bridge — the 
shell had missed. The gun commander 
groaned aloud, but his directions down the 
telephone for the firing of the next shot were 

28 J 



given in a quiet, level voire. Again he turned 
his glasses on the bridge and waited. The 
sight was one of the greatest confusion. The 
shot was so unexpected, and the shriek of the 
enormous projectile as it flew close overhead 
so astounding in volume, that in an instant 
panic reigned supreme. Some of the horse- 

men set spurs to their horses and dashed 
forward, while others turned to gallop back. 
The result was a hopeless block of plunging 
horses and excited men. Into the midst of 
this seething mass came the second shell, a 
veritable acria! torpedo containing over five 
hundred pounds cf high explosive. 




The observer saw a bright flash, followed 
instantly by a dense cloud of black smoke 
which towered up from the bridge. When 
this had cleared away he noted with glee that 
one of the spans had disappeared- Along the 
whole length of the bridge a mass of men and 
horses still struggled frantically. 

Osaka aimed this time at the east end of the 
bridge — again the shot told. Now a crowd of 
horsemen found themselves entrapped, for Ihe 
shell had cut the bridge behind them- The 
fate of the unfortunate- Cossacks thus 
marooned uudt: the terrible fire of the big 
gun fetbs pitiabIpj"lFIWtfy r Hs|urgcd helplessly to 



and fro, and in the melie several horses and 
riders were pushed over the broken ends of 
the roadway and fell into the swirling stream 

The sight of these swimming and floating 
downstream seemed to point to the only 
possible chance of escape, and as he gave the 
order to fire again Osaka saw hundreds of 
men and horses leap or fall into the river. 
This shell demolished one of the piers, which 
caused the spans it had supported to sink 
down into the river at a steep angle. The 
bridge was now a wreck, the whole face of 
the broad stream was covered with struggling 
men and horses, and at last the great gun 
was silent. 


Meanwhile the battle had recommenced 
along the whole front, and on the other flank 
twenty miles away the Japanese turning 
movement had succeeded. But the Russian 
general reserve, which had arrived too late on 
the scene to avert this disaster, was now fight- 
ing grimly and holding the Japanese in check. 

Although the Russian commander could no 
longer look for victory, he still hoped to 
withdraw his army without serious loss. He 
relied on his Cossack division, and believed 
firmly that it would carry out the mission he 
had entrusted to it, as he knew that his 
opponents' cavalry was weak. He argued 
that when the Japanese found themselves 
attacked in rear their pressing attentions 
would be diverted, and he would then be in a 
position to withdraw his troops in safety. 
Everything now depended on the success of 
the Cossacks. When he learnt that they had 
been held up by the unexpected destruction 
of the bridge he was in despair. After a 
hurried consultation with his staff he wired 
back to the Cossack commander : — 

" My left flank driven in and falling back 
slowly. Your success imperative to ensure 
safe retreat of army. Silence gun at all costs. 
Engineers will repair bridge." 

On receipt of this message the Cossack 
commander began a series of desperate attacks 
on the hill covering the gun. He pushed his 
horse artillery boldly forward, and under cover 
of its fire his squadrons in widely extended 
formation " galloped for " the hill. But the 
Japanese infantry there were well entrenched 
and supported by numerous machine-guns, 
and the gallant horsemen were mown down 
by hundreds and driven back again and 
again. Meanwhile, the hidden howitzer, 
invisible to the enemy, continued to fire all 
day, and silenced many of the plucky little 

guns which had dared to come out into the 

When night came the Russian engineers, 
under cover of the friendly darkness, began 
the task of patching up the bridge. But in 
this work they counted without Captain 
Osaka. That indomitable little gunner care- 
fully laid his gun on the bridge just before 
dusk, and at midnight one of his terrific 
projectiles landed on it with dire results. 

It was at this stage, just when his efforts 
seemed to be crowned with complete success, 
that misfortune overtook Captain Osaka. 
Had he rested content with one shot, or even 
with half-a-dozen, all might have been well, 
but he continued to fire for over an hour. He 
had set up luminous direction discs before 
dusk, and knew that he had thus ensured good 
practice even in the dark ; but he forgot, or 
ignored the fact, that the flashes of his giant 
gun were reflected above the hill in the sky. 
These flashes served to guide a force of some 
four thousand Russians who were creeping 
forward to attack under cover of darkness. 
This night attack was in the nature of a 
forlorn hope, a last desperate expedient to 
capture and silence the inexorable guardian 
of the Japanese left flank. It was successful. 
The Russians largely outnumbered their 
opponents on the spot, and, after a fierce 
struggle, carried the hill at the point of the 

Osaka, when he saw the hill was about to 
be taken, left his observation post and fled 
down to his precious gun. To get it away 
was, he knew, impossible, but, at any rate, 
it should be defended to the last man. And 
defended to the last man it was : the gunners 
lined the high sand-bag parapet of the 
epaulement and fought like Paladins. But 
they were quickly surrounded and over- 
whelmed. The Russians first threw hand- 
grenades, which, in the circumscribed space, 
killed or disabled most of the gunners, and 
then rushed in with the bayonet, pouring 
over the breastworks from all sides like a 
flood. Osaka himself was struck down from 
behind with a blow from a clubbed rifle. 

The gun was captured at last, but it had 
done its work, for, while the Russians were 
taking it, another night attack was in progress 
on the other flank. Here the Japanese were 
pushing the advantage gained during the day, 
and were carrying all before them. They 
had already advanced five miles along the 
Russian position, and, in tactical parlance, 
were " rolling up the line." 

When Osaka recovered consciousness, some- 
thing we: and icily cold ww. pressing on his 



face. He opened his eyes to find that it was 
snowing fast. He sat up and looked round ; 
he was still somewhat dazed, and what with 
the falling snow and the darkness could at 
first make out nothing. Then he discerned 
the dim shape of the howitzer looming up a 
few feet away, and like a keen agony came 
the sudden realization of his position. He 
was alive and to all intents and purposes a 
prisoner, while his men were all killed or 
wounded and his beloved gun in the hands of 
the enemy. On the morrow it would be 
turned on his own comrades. From its 
position it could enfilade many of their lines 
and work dreadful havoc. With this thought 
came a grim resolve. He must somehow 
disable the gun before morning. But how ? 
That was the question. The enemy were all 
round him, and only a few yards away, 
manning the sand-bag parapet of the epaule- 
ment. If the snow ceased he would be 
discovered; there was not an instant to 

He stretched himself face downwards on 
the snow, and began to worm his way towards 
the gun. As he did so his brain worked at 
the fever speed of thought. How was he to 
effect his purpose ? Single-handed it would 
be impossible even to remove the massive 
breech-block, much less carry it away. He 
could tamper with the breech mechanism, but 
with his bare hands could do no lasting 
damage. He might block the barrel with 
pieces of rock or anything else which came to 
hand, and trust to the obstruction not being 
discovered. This plan would take time, and 
he could hardly hope to carry it out with the 
Russians only a few yards off. He reached 
the gun and stood up cautiously. The breech 
was open ; evidently the gunners were about 
to load when the alarm came. 

For several minutes Osaka stood there and 
racked his brains for some method of disabling 
the monster. Then a sudden inspiration 
came — there was only one method of blocking 
the barrel effectually in the circumstances. 

He must do it with his own body ! 

He began cautiously to scoop out with his 
hand and arm the snow which had drifted 
into the " chamber " ; then, without hesita- 
tion, but slowly and painfully, for his limbs 
were stiff with cold, he climbed in head 

He was not a moment too soon. Hardly 
had he reached his hiding-place and partially 
closed the breech behind him by pulling at 
the breech-block with his feet, when a shot 
rang out close by. This was followed by a 
fusillade. As the din grew, Osaka realized 

that this was no mere night alarm, but a 
determined counter-attack by his comrades to 
regain the position and the lost howitzer. 
Hope leapt up in his breast, but it was 
followed instantly by fear. What if his 
comrades should recapture the gun and find 
him hiding inside it ? Would they credit his 
reasons for being there ? He shivered at the 
alternative. To be branded as a coward, 
even to be suspected of cowardice, that would 
be worse than death, a million times worse. 
The very thought made him clench his fists 
and draw his breath through clenched teeth 
with a soft, hissing sound. Would they dare 
to doubt him, a Samurai and an officer ? 

But his fears on this score proved to be 
unnecessary. The attack continued for about 
an hour with the greatest fury. At one time 
the attackers seemed to be quite close ; 
Osaka's heart thrilled at the sound of a 
Japanese cheer, and the bullets rang on the 
gun like hail. Then he. heard the sound of 
guttural voices and hundreds of heavy feet 
crunching through the snow as they doubled 
past — they were Russian reinforcements. 
There was a still more furious burst of fire, 
then it began to roll away, and died down 
almost as suddenly as it had begun. The 
counter-attack had failed. 

Osaka had taken advantage of the noise 
made by the attack to worm his way along 
the fifteen-feet barrel towards the muzzle. 
He selected this position so as to minimize the 
chances of discovery, and because, the gun 
being slightly narrower here, his body would 
more effectually block the bore and his 
purpose would be better served. 

The barrel at this point was a tight fit, even 
for a little man ; the icy steel wall pressed 
upon Osaka on all sides and interfered with 
circulation, and the intense cold of it pene- 
trated through all his clothing and seemed to 
sear his flesh. As the long hours passed his 
position grew increasingly intolerable ; at 
length it became a nightmare, an obsession. 
The monster was squeezing him to death. 
Instinctively he struggled to free himself, but, 
despite his most desperate efforts, he was 
unable to move. Then he realized that he 
was not merely wedged into the barrel, he 
was also frozen to it ; the snow on his clothes 
had at first partially melted, and then, as the 
heat of his body failed, had frozen to the 
metal. His legs and arms were still free, but 
almost too numbed for movement. 

The sound of voices close at hand aroused 
him from a sort of torpor into which he had 
fallen. He raised his head, which was 
pillowed iWirhis 1 Wi$,, arid looked out through 




head ™««>ff(I| VERS | T Y of MICHIGAN 

fj FOB 


:« 9 

the muzzle of the gun. It was growing light ; 
he could see some rocks on the hillside quite 
clearly. At the same time he became aware 
that the noise of the battle, which he had 
heard almost unconsciously for hours, had 
grown louder and nearer. His spirits rose, 
for he knew that the gun would soon be in 
action, and his torture would be at an end. 
He was also cheered by the approaching din 
of battle. Surely it could only mean that 
the great turning movement on the other 
flank had been successful, and that his 
victorious comrades were " rolling up the 
line/' advancing towards him along the 
Russian position. 

A deep guttural voice boomed out close by, 
and he felt the barrel begin to move slowly to 
the right ; it was evident that the gun was 
about to bs trained on some target. Presently 
the lateral movement stopped ; all that 
Osaka could see now was the upper half of a 
snow-clad fir tree. How beautiful it looked ! 
Again the guttural voice boomed out ; a light 
broke in from the breech end. The gun was. 
about to be loaded. Would they discover 
him ? He heard the familiar squeak of the 
shell-lift — he had intended to have it oiled, 
but the grease-case had been dropped in a 
drift and lost when the gun was being dragged 
into position the night before. Was it really 
only the night before ? It seemed ages ago. 
The light disappeared suddenly; something 
had entered the breech of the gun. Was that 
loud hiss the soft, squishy noise which he had 
heard so often when the breech-block went 
home ? The gun was loaded. Once more 
the guttural voice snapped out a word of 
command. The muzzle began to travel 
slowly upwards, and the fir tree disappeared 
from view. Far away on a distant ridge a 
number of little dots were moving; they were 
either his comrades advancing or the Russians 
retiring, he could not tell which. Again the 
movement ceased. The gun was laid and 
about to fire. 

Suddenly a wild desire to live came to the 
man hidden within it. Was it worth it after 
all ? No one would ever know what had 
become of him. His name would not be added 
to the glorious list of Japan's heroes who had 
died for their country. Little Mirami and the 
old people, they would wait and wait, and 
always hope for news of him. Little Mirami 
— he saw her now, standing in the sunny 
doorway in her rainbow-silk kimono, smiling 
her frozen little smile and waving him good- 
bye. " Sayonara "— " Banzai "—the sweet 

Vol. xlv.-30. 

by LiOOgle 

tones of her voice rang in his cars. And there 
was the old man, his father, behind her with 
his proud face and the non-committal eye? 
which veiled) as he well knew, a great and 
tender heart. And within, face downward? 

on the cushions, his mother ; she Fools, 

would they never fire ? His nerve was 
breaking, he must scream aloud. 

Once more the guttural voice. Now ! No, 
the muzzle began to move upwards again. 
Ah ! they wanted more elevation. He tried 
to wedge himself more firmly to prevent 
slipping, but his frozen limbs refused to move. 
When the barrel at last came to rest all that 
Osaka could see through his little circle of 
vision was a tiny, fleecy cloud, rose-pink at the 
approach of dawn. They were about to fire 
now. He could stand it no longer — he must 
live to see Mirami once again — only once 

Exhausted body and tortured brain were 
giving way under the terrible strain, but the 
brave spirit of the Samurai still held sway. 
" For the lives of your comrades/' it 
whispered, " for the Emperor and Japan." 

Captain Osaka bit his bleeding lips again to 
stifle the cry which would have saved him, 
and fixed his staring eyes on the distant rosy 

When the smoke had cleared away the 
Russian gunners stared in awed amazement 
at the strange phenomenon before them. A 
little snow-clad fir tree, a few yards down the 
slope, had suddenly turned to a brilliant 

Then one of the gunners gave a strange, 
strangled cry. " Look ! Look ! " he screamed, 
pointing with a trembling hand to the muzzle 
of the gun. " Holy Mother of God, the great 
gun is dribbling blood ! " 

They turned to look. The giant muzzle was 
smothered in a deep crimson fluid which, as 
they watched, ran down the (parrel in tiny 
streams and dripped slowly on to the snow 

The superstitious Russians crossed them- 
selves and drew back ; for several moments 
they gazed in horror at the sight, and no man 

At last the silence was broken by an officer. 
" Fall in ! " he commanded, in an unsteady 
voice. " This is due to some devilish device 
of these accursed pagans. See " — he pointed 
to a bulge and a thin crack which had 
appeared half-way down the massive barrel — 
" the gun has burst!" 



Romance in a Registry Office. 


Illustrated ty George Morrow. 

>J a Tecent novel the heroine's 
mother explains her sudden 
plunge into trouble to a 
confiding but inexperienced 
friend : — 

" I had just sent for the 
housemaid to give her notice 
because she never dusts the lustres properly, 
when she turned round and gave it— notice^ 
I mean — to me ! n 

" What a blessing ! It saved you the 

14 On the contrary, if you knew anything 
of domestics* Valentia, you would see that 
it put me in a most awkward position ; and 
now I shall have to live at Mrs, Hunt's/' 

" To live at Mrs, Hunt's ? ,T repeated Val, 
as if stupefied, " Why, you Ye not going 
to leave your charming house ? And who is 
Mrs. Hunt— an old friend of yours ? " 

11 Don't vou reallv know who Mrs* Hunt 
is, Valentia?" 

u No ; I haven't the faintest idea." 

** She has a registry off Well, may you 

never know ! Certainly I'm not going to 
leave my house* The idea of such a thing ! " 

What is the greatest problem of the day ? 
Men might fumble over the question, but 

any woman in the kingdom would tell you at 
once. It is the problem of the servant. To 
the servant it is the problem of the master 
and mistress. 

Everybody in the kingdom is more or 
less interested in this problem, enormous, 
baffling^ insistent ; and yet it is astonishing 
how little is known about the great sources 
of servant supply. Domestic science is 
beginning to be taught — but what about 
domestic servant science ? 

Here is an army of over a million persons, 
divided off into corps, regiments, and bat- 
talions. How is this army recruited? How 
is it trained ? What is its scab of pay ? 
Who fixes the rate of wages ? For how long 
does it enlist ? How many butlers are there ? 
How many cooks and housemaids ? Where 
do they come from ? Where do they go to ? 
And how does this army, bearing the worthy 
banner of " Ich Dien," compare with the 
armier of other countries ? 

In London's West-end are several large 
establishments which may be called servants' 
recruiting offices. Not one household head 
in a thousand ever so much as trusses their 
portals or knows anything about them ; hut 
themjirai^ngti flrarfpBi.qi [humour, human 
interest, and even of romance* One of these 



emporiums for the supply of butlers, men- 
servants, footmen, pages, housekeepers, cooks, 
parlour-maids, up-and-down maids, house- 
maids, and kitchen-maids has grown to be- 
almost a national institution, 

" We will assume/' said my mentor, as 
we threaded our way through the corridors, 
" that you want a cook.' 1 

f * Certainly/' I asserted. 

" We can live without poetry, music, or books ; 
Bat civilized man cannot live without cooks. tf 

" Then we will pass to the cooks' depart- 
ment. This way, if you 

On the glass door 
was painted a legend, 
"Single-handed Cooks," 

" No/* I said, firmly, 
11 we will not go in 
there. The sight of 
these poor 3 faithful, 
inn tilated servants 
would unman me. 
W* — " 

But the door was 
already opened , and as 
my gaze rested upon 
scores of female cooks, 
young, old , thin, fat, 
dark, fair, the manager 
explained that the 
phrase "single-handed" 
merely meant cooks un- 
assisted by a kitchen- 
maid. They were the 
sort of cooks most in 
demand . 1 1 seemed 
strange to see them sitting here, chatting 
together^ reading newspapers, in their bonnets, 
gloved, always with that air of expectancy — 
waiting, always waiting. In spite of the 
absence of a range, it gave the place the 
aspect of a vast kitchen. 

The manager spoke to one of them — a 
stout, red- fated, middle-aged one. 

*' Ah, Mrs, Briggs ! Back again ? " 

" Yes/' she said, simply, "Tarts," 

" I remember — your strong point. Pastry* 
They didn't like it ? " 

" Wouldn't touch it. What could I do ? 
I couldn't stay and be 'appy, could I ? " 

Turning to me, the manager said : "She's 
a little eccentric, but a splendid cook, Was 
nine years with Lady M — — . She has tried 
three places since, but can't get suited. 
Have you any idea where the best cooks in 
England come from ? " 

I reflected. " Cookham ? " I hazarded. 

" No ; Herefordshire, I haven't any idea 

why, but the cooks in London with thu 
longest records of service hail from Hereford- 
shire. Nottinghamshire produces the most 
nursemaids, and Kent the most housemaids, 
of any county in proportion to their popula- 
tion. Do you see that woman in the corner 
— with the large green hat ? She has been, 
I think, fifteen years in service, and spends 
exactly one year in each place. Her mis- 
tresses all do their best to keep her, for she 
is a capital cook, clean and good-tempered ; 
but at the end of a year she invariably gives 
notice. Her excuse 
frankly is that she 
wants a change of air 
and scene. Where do 
you wish to go now, 
Miss Partridge ? " 

" Harrogate, if you 
please," is the reply, 
" I'm expecting the 
lady here this morning. 
As a matter of fact, 
there are three ladies 


11 Well, 

make a good 


you, sir. 


dare say the change of 
We leave the cooks— 
the most independent of 
any in domestic service 
— and pass on to the 
housekc eper * ' de part- 
ment. On the way my 
mentor observes : — *- 
" Cooks' wages tend to increase yearly. 
Single-handed cooks nowadays never take 
less than twenty-six pounds, and they usually 
want thirty pounds. But where they have 
help from a kitchen-maid or a scullery-maid 
they ask and receive thirty-five to seventy 
pounds a year. But many good cooks have 
a preference for a small family, and prefer to 
manage without assistance." 

More cooks — these obviously very superior. 
One of them is notably refined and attractive 
in appearance, She is reading a book. My 
eye catches the title ; it is " Felix Holt." 

(E She ? Oh, she's u lady. Gentlewoman 
born. Most exclusive* Left penniless and 
learnt scientific cookery at a school. She 
might have become a governess or a school- 
teacher* but as it is she can command eighty 
pounds a year. She was three years 
with Mrs. B -j - j ^of Curzon Street* Many 

raiEgmw& r y S3 



interfered with, and if they really love cookery 
they couldn't do better. 7 ' 

We pass into the department labelled 
" Governesses and Lady Nurses." Here may 
be seen an assortment of young ladies— and 
some not so young — of family^ whom cir- 
cumstances have obliged to seek a livelihood. 
It is either this or the stage, and in many 
instances this room has proved the ante-room 
to the green-room. It has also proved a 
preliminary to matrimony and an " establish - 
ment/ J 

w If servants," declares my guide, " are 
not so good as formerly, the cause is, first 
of all, in over-education, which makes the 
average girl aspire to something higher and 
1 freer J than service. The old-fashioned ser- 
vant is now a thing of the past. But there Ls 
still not much difficulty in obtaining girls for 
the better class of houses ; as here there .was 

day has not the same knowledge of her work 
possessed by the servant of former times, and 
of course this must result in less domestic- 
peace and comfort, and these must react upon 
national habits and national character. 

Here we are in the " interview room/' 
where half-a-dozen mistresses are examining 
would-be recruits for the army. One catches 
such phrases as " Last place/ 1 ** Always had 
twenty-four," " Not exactly a follower, 
ma am/' " Very well, I will take it up at once 
and let you know/' etc. 

What a contrast to this scene is that 
offered by the men-servants' department I 
What a place to study facial character ! 
The department is divided off into sections 
or groups f such as " couples," (i odd men/' 
" foreign men/' " stablemen/' " hotel em- 
ployes/' as well as " private servants/' Here 
vou are in another world, dominated bv 


always the chance of higher wages and an 
improved position from an under-post to an 
upper servant's place* If I were to advertise 
for a clerk or governess I should have five 
hundred applications by the next day's 
post. If I wanted to fill fifty kitchen-maids 1 
places I might have fifty applicants. But if 
I wanted a house -parlour- ma id or good plain 
cook to go single-handed I should probably 
not get a single reply. So difficult is it to 
get this class of servant that I never charge 
them any fee, but ask a higher fee of the 
mistress for supplying them/' 

In the opinion of one— perhaps London's 
leading authority — the servant °£ the present 

Jeames Ycllowplush in mufti and out of 

But the romance of the registry office is 
in the cellars. Here, in this admirably- 
managed establishment, are kept the records 
of some two hundred thousand .servants for 
a half -century past. Amongst these names 
are some who have risen out of the servant 
class altogether — nay, even have attained high 
rank and wealth. A countess died recently 
who, lie fore her marriage, was well known 
to the stage. Before becoming an actress 
she had, like the <rn?at Mrs. Siddons herself, 





books, more than a generation ago, her 
character was founds signed by a lady still 

4 ' A H , 7 ' it ran, '* who has been 

with me for six months as nursery-maid, I 
have found, on the whole, to be honest and 
willing, but hardly as interested in her work 
as I wished for. 1 think she would do better 
in another situation."' 

One wonders whether, when in after years 
the ex -nursery-maid took precedence of her 

ladyship at, say, a Drawing Room, the ex- 
employer would have considered the young 
countess's 4 * situation " aa more becoming. 

It is truly astonishing to think of the 
personal history that is embedded in these 
cabinets — how many names of parlour-maids, 
housemaids, footmen, and valets who have 
afterwards set up for themselves in the world, 
and even cut a notable figure in it. Not long 
since the captain of an ocean liner called at a 
registry office and asked to be allowed to see 


iginal from 

2 9 4 




and take a copy of a 
character given him 
thirty years ago by a 
gentleman in Half Moon 
Street, in whose service 
he was then as page. 

" William Brown has 

given great satisfaction 

for twelve months. 

He is honest, reliable, 

and intelligent, and should 

do well in any capacity for 

which he offers himself . 7i 

The signature to this 
testimonial was that of an 
historic Cabinet Minister, 

On the other hand, there 
are the "black books." 
These, in one establish- 
ment, contain no fewer 
than thirty thousand 
names, with full particulars 
— terrible particulars, some 
of them — of as many ser- 
vants, the very scum and 
dregs of domestic service. 
These particulars are in 
alphabetical order, and arc 
constantly being referred to ; they 
have been carefully compiled 
through the aid of employers, news- 
papers, and the police. Such 
servants stand no chance what- 
ever of securing situations through 
that agency, especially as these 
records are supplemented by a 
rigid system of inquiry, 

" For instance, we take all the 
London and provincial directories 
published. These are often suf- 
ficient of themselves to throw 
much light on the statements of 
servants who are inclined to play 
tricks in the matter of ( character.' 
The discrepancies we sometimes 



find between the prosaic 
statements of the direc- 
tory and the accounts 
servants give us of cer- 
tain establishments are 
very striking- A man 
once referred us to a 
gentleman in Yorkshire 
for his character, stating 
that he had been two 
years and a half with 
him as butler. We 
accordingly looked up 
the gentleman and 
f ou nd he kept a 
public-house ! 

" We sometimes find 
servants in the country 
writing to us and re- 
ferring for characters 
to people who 3 while 
living in quite tiny 
houses, are repre- 
sented as keeping 
fifteen or twenty ser- 
vants. Once we found 
a chimney-sweep who 
kept cook, k itch en - 




maid, and scullery-maid. Again^ 
we have found a clerk, living with 
his wife and family in three or 
four rooms, maintaining a dozen 
servants or more. Many clerks, 
accustomed to the pen, are quite 
able to write a letter that would 
pass muster as a genuine character 
with perhaps ninety -five ladies 
out of a hundred. And it's often 
possible to write from addresses 
which would deceive anybody. 
On the other hand, one of 
our clients had her suspicions 
arcus-ed because a certain butler's 

from a 
laces are 

cottage. But lots of pla 



called cottages where butlers are kept, 
and in this case it happened to be a 
wealthy marchioness who called her country 
place a cottage. 

" Not long ago a woman turned up who 
made a handsome living as a * character ' 
writer. (One wonders, by the way, if this 
has any connection with the much-advertised 
' characters told by post.') There was another 
case before a magistrate where a man, after 
procuring for himself a situation by writing 
his own character, very shortly afterwards 
got a place for his daughter in the same estab- 
lishment by writing a character for her. I 
am afraid that forged characters are on the 
increase, but so are the means for exposing 
them. Would you like a typical case ? Here 
is one of Charles Barlow, butler, recommended 
by Mr. Pitt-Rivers, 4, Duke Street, Charing 
Cross, as honest, sober, capable, and trust- 
worthy, and also by Mr. Charles Bruce, of 
The Grove, Llanbadarn Fawr, near Aberyst- 
wyth. We set about investigations, and 
found that there was a Grove Cottage, that 
it was a small workman's house, occupied 
by a Mr. Charles. There was a mansion, 
however, near, where a Mr. Bruce had been 
a butler. As for No. 4, Duke Street, that was 
a letter bureau ! 

" Again, there is the case of Margaret 
Gully, who presents a beautiful letter from 
Mrs. A. Campbell, of 8, Portland Square, 
Workington, Cumberland, recommending her 
as cook-housekeeper at fifty pounds a year and 
praising her virtues. Inquiry at 8, Portland 
Square showed it to be a small cottage rented 
at a few shillings a week, and occupied by a 
poor woman who kept no servant ! 

" Why, sometimes they even go so far as 
to impersonate the complaisant mistress who 
is losing a ' treasure/ and in one notable case 
the professional ' mistress ' drove up in her 
carriage and pair (hired by the hour) to call 
upon the prospective employer, and enacted 
the high-born dame, zealous for her faithful 
cook's interests, so perfectly that the lady 
was charmed and engaged the ' jewel ' on 
the spot. Less than a month later the cook 
decamped with the case containing her 

fellow-jewels, and her whereabouts remain 
still unknown." 

Mrs. Hunt, of registry office fame, is now 
over ninety years of age. Her husband was 
a printer, and she kept a small bookshop, 
which she admits was not a very paying 

" Ladies used often to ask me if I could 
tell them of a good servant when they 
came into the shop, and I was considered to 
know a good one when I saw her. One of 
these ladies suggested that I should keep 
a registry office and make a business of it. 
My husband didn't want me to trouble 
about it, but I had a fancy I should like 
to try. Accordingly I started a small 
office, which gradually grew to what you 
see at present. There are seven of my 
family in it — sons and daughters and 
grandchildren — and we employ altogether 
about a hundred and thirty persons. My 
youngest son is the great organizer, and it 
is he who has brought the business to its 
present dimensions. 

" The Council schools," observes Mrs. Hunt, 
" have certainly made better scholars, if they 
haven't multiplied servants ; but hardly a 
day passes but we receive some extraordinary 
examples of penmanship. We have gained a 
good deal of experience in deciphering curious 
letters and application forms. Occasionally 
some of these are quite laughable. Here is 
one written by a young woman which, on 
first reading, would seem to suggest that we 
were in the undertaking line : — 

" ' Madam, — Will you please let me know 
what your fees are, as I am not like to live. — 
Yours respectfully.' 

" The writer merely wishes to pay her fee, 
because she is not likely to leave. Here are a 
few application forms as filled in, from which 
you will gather that there are occasional 
grounds for misunderstanding and discontent 
in the world of domestic service. Neverthe- 
less, one servant writes us : — 

" ' My master is a dredful Strick master 
he will not alow you to go out off park Gates 
without spaking to Him, but strick masters 
make good servants.' " 

p p p 

^ Google 

Original from 

The Disappearing Trick. 


Illustrated by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 

HE office was preparing to 
close, complying thus with the 
suggestions of a new Act to 
which Mrs. Ransome objected 
and the three assistants gave 
approval. The windows did 
not cover themselves with 
shutters, but gave up their week-ends for the 
benefit of youngsters who came to gaze at 
the miniature wagons loaded with real coal, 
and, with less interest, at current prices of 
Derby Brights, Cobbles, Roasters. 

At one minute past one o'clock the young 
men told Mrs. Ransome they thought it was 
going to be, as an exception to a rule, a fine 
Saturday afternoon, adding that their address 
until six-thirty would be the Cricket 
Pavilion, Regent's Park. Mrs. Ransome, 
placing leather-bound account-books in her 
bag, said she hoped they would have a 
good game. At five minutes past one she 
herself left and turned the key in the padlock 
outside the door. 

" My dear ! " cried a voice, in a panting 
way, intended to suggest that its owner had 
been hurrving. 

" That you, James ? " 

" Don't tell me," begged Mr. Ransome, 
distressedly, " that my blessed watch is losing 
again. I shall have to get it seen to." 

" Scarcely worth the trouble," she said, 
with calm. 

" But it's the present you gave me when 
we were married." 

" I mean that if you had it regulated, it 
wouldn't make any difference to the time 
you keep." 

" My love ! " he protested, walking by her 
side. " Don't let's begin one of those argu- 
ments of ours that lead nowhere, and onlv 
upset my health. As a matter of fact, I've 
been very busy all the morning going round 
for orders, and " 

" Did you get any ? " 

" Trade seems quiet," he explained. 
" Scarcely anything doing. But, as I say, 
I've been on the go, and it was my firm 

intention to get back before twelve, so as to 
give you a hand with the books." 

" Suppose you help with them now. This 
bag is heavy." 

Mr. Ransome called to a boy and trans- 
ferred the task to him ; at the Tube station 
he requested his wife to give to the young 
porter the sum of threepence. At the ticket- 
window she made purchases, and if she had 
not taken charge of the bag it would, 
apparently, have found its way to the 
Lost Property Office. In the lift and in the 
train Mr. Ransome gave a description of the 
route followed that morning in the interests 
of the business, the rebuffs experienced, the 
statements made by various folk concerning 
gas-stoves. He seemed hurt by the circum- 
stance that his wife made no comment, and, 
arriving at Gillespie Road and coming out 
again into the sunlight, he commented on 

" Don't you believe me, darling ? " 

" Not a single word," she replied. 

As they reached the turning of their road 
he offered to take the bag, but she declined 
now to accept his services. At the gate he 
stopped and mentioned that, the day being 
fine, he did not propose to go indoors ; the 
open air suited his constitution better than 
the atmosphere of stuffy rooms. If his wife 
would be good enough to let him have a 


" Or, say, fifteen bob." 

" No ! " 

" Well, then, half a quid." 

" No ! " 

Mr. Ransome, seriously disturbed, de- 
manded to be informed the meaning of this 
unprecedented behaviour. Ever since their 
marriage, a period that represented nearly 
twelve months — " I shall get you to let me 
have some money next week," he remarked, 
casually, " so as I can buy you a memento of 
some kind for the anniversary " — during all 
that space it had been the custom for Mrs. 
Ransome to furnish sums necessary to meet 



current expenses, as he called them, on 
request. Where, might he ask, was the sense 
in departing from a fixed arrangement? 
Mrs. Ransome, giving the answer readily, 
declared she was tired of going on in the 
old way. Mr. Ransome had represented 
himself to her in courting days as a land 
surveyor ; it appeared to her he was really 
nothing better than an inspector of pavements. 

" That's unkind ! " he asserted. 

Mrs. Ransome assured him it was not her 
intention to be pleasing. He seemed content 
to loaf about the streets of St. Pancras doing 
nothing, and it was, in her opinion, right 
that he should receive the wages generally 
paid to those who performed no work. So 
far as this Saturday afternoon was concerned, 
she proposed to give him not a single penny. 

" Be careful ! " he warned. " Be very, very 
careful. It takes a lot to rouse me, but once 
my blood is up, and once I make up my mind 
to a certain course of action, nothing can 
stop me." 

Mrs. Ransome asserted that she was not 
afraid of him or of anything he might do. If 
he cared to come in and assist with the books, 
a task that could be completed within a couple 
of hours, a sum would then be paid to him. 
A neighbour came to a window and opened 
it with the pretence of snipping leaves of 
geraniums in the long box, but evidently 
desirous of listening to the conversation. 

"Look here!" he said, asserting himself 
bravely in face of an audience. " There's a 
lot of talk on your side , laying down the 
law, and ordering people about. Allow me to 
remind you that you're not addressing one 
of your clerks ; you are speaking to a 


That's your own description, not mine." 
" And furthermore," with increasing deter- 
mination, " I'm going to behave like one. 
I've got a certain amount of what is called 
grit in my nature, and for the first time since 
we've known each other I'm going to make it 
evident. I can afford to be quite independent 
of you." The neighbour's wife came to bear 
her husband company. " I can go back to 
my old profession, and make a living." 
" I should like to see you do it." 
" You shall ! " he announced, in a shout. 
" That is to say, you won't exactly see me do 
it, because I intend never to let you catch 
sight of me again. But I'm off now, and I 
don't care who knows it. And if it's any con- 
solation to you, you can take it that you've 
brought all the trouble on yourself. Try to 
realize that you're looking on me for the last 

" Good-bye ! " she said. 

He swaggered away at a fair pace. Near 
the end of the road he slackened, expecting 
to hear a call ; this did not come, and before 
taking the turn he looked back. His wife was 
out of sight, but the neighbour and the neigh- 
bour's wife gazed interestedly. Mr. Ransome 
found satisfaction in the knowledge that news 
of his resolute and determined behaviour 
would be promptly distributed. 

He counted his money carefully on the way 
to Finsbury Park, and discovered that the 
total sum was two shillings less than the 
amount he had expected ; he remembered now 
that, to fill in time, he had taken an early 
lunch. The exact sum at his disposal was 
three and ninepence, and it occurred to him 
that this would have to be carefully disbursed 
in order to take him over the small period 
of time occupied in waiting for his wife's 
repentance. At six o'clock, after watching 
games in the park, he obtained the services 
of a man who was lounging outside a coffee- 
shop, gave him sixpence, and entrusted to 
him a letter, the envelope of which was 
marked " Wait answer." 

The man returned to the coffee-shop within 
half an hour, and demanded another sixpence 
for bringing the reply, and, this sum being 
paid with great reluctance, announced that 
the lady had said there was no answer. Mr. 
Ransome, considerably pained, wrote a very 
definitely worded letter announcing his inten- 
tion of drowning himself in the lake on the 
morrow, and carefully mentioned the address 
where he was staying. To save further 
expense he himself took this to the house 
so soon as dusk came. 

In the basement sitting-room he could see 
that his supper had been prepared in the 
usual way, and it required all the available 
resolution to prevent himself from going down 
the steps and enjoying the meal. I think 
he would have done this, only that it occurred 
to him that it was a piece of great imper- 
tinence to assume he would return that 
evening. He dropped the alarming com- 
munication in the letter-box; hurried off in 
the way of one who has lighted the fuse for 
an explosion. In walking back to the coffee- 
shop where he proposed to stay for the night, 
he thought, with a certain amount of satis- 
faction, of the astonishment that would be 
created, the remorse which would follow the 
reading of the note. 

" Serves her jolly well right," he decided. 

The next morning after breakfast he found 
himself with ninepence in his pocket. The 

ra ^fffi%femf 1 MeH^N theproprietress 




of the establishment inquired humorously 
whether he proposed going to early service. 
Mr. Ransome replied that he had a much 
more interesting prospect. On the matronly 
lady expressing doubt s, he gave her details, 
and she insisted on being allowed to accom- 
pany him t declaring she had not enjoyed a 
really hearty laugh for years and years. 

" They'll be dragging the water to find your 
body/' she cried, relishing the joke in anti- 
cipation, " and your wife will be on the hank 
crying her eyes out, and all the time we shall 
he behind a tree ; looking on. T3 

They returned at noon ? wet through, and 
when Mr t Ransome made a suggestion his 
companion declared, with some vehemence, 
that rather than allow him to have a meal 
in the establishment on credit she would 
prefer to see her name in the Bankruptcy list. 
He protested it was not his fault that Mrs. 
Ransome had been unmoved by the threat 
contained in the letter. 

" It's my misfortune, anyway/ 3 said the 
disappointed lady. " Haven't fully dressed 
myself so early on a Sunday since I was a kid, 

and it's been all for nothing." 
As a concession, she later lent 
him the newspaper, and gave 
him two thick slices of bread 
and butter for an evening 

Mr. Ransome, on the Monday 
morning, found himself face to 
face with a crisis that never fails 
to strike terror into the hearts 
of indolent folk, It seemed that 
he was within measurable 
distance of being compelled to 
work for a livelihood. The 
thought had sometimes come to 
him in dreams after a late 
supper , but he felt certain its 
present appearance could not be 
imputed to over- feeding. Always 
living by what he called his 
wits, he felt an intense objection 
to relying upon any other means, 
and he walked down Seven 
Sisters Road in the hope of dis* 
covering a suggestion. A shop 
window containing masks and 
wigs and tinselled costumes met 
his eye; after a moment of 
hesitation he went in. To the 
sharp youth in charge he ex- 
plained that he was arranging 
a fancy - dress hall at the 
Athenaeum in Camden Road. 
11 Where do you live 3 sir ? n 
Mr. Ransome gave one of his business cards, 
and went on to point out that many of the 
people who had taken tickets would come to 
him and say : " Look here, this is all very 
well ; but where the deuce are we to borrow 
make-up and dresses and so forth and so on, 
from ? JJ What he recommended was that 
the firm should furnish him with something 
like a sample of their wares— say, an effective 
beard and then he could convince applicants 
that Somers and Co, was the firm to patronize. 
" Right you are/' said the alert youth, 
taking down some boxes. " Try some of 
these on," 

He selected one that came nearer to 
nature than most, and in going with the 
cardboard box under his arm mentioned 
that this was one of the finest strokes of 
business the firm had done for many a long 

He would have paid his visit to the coal- 
office at once , but it was necessary that the 
luncheon-hour should be selected, for then 
the clerks would be out. He found a free 
library, and in the shelter of a sloping news- 

[Diversity of Michigan 


2 99 




paper-stan d 
fixed the beard. 
In Holloway 
Roadj at a 
second - hand 
shop , he effec- 
ted, at a loss, 
an exchange of 
clothing; at 
five minutes 
past one he 
reached the 
office. As he 
entered his wife 
looked up with 
the smile 

(i Morning, 
madam/' he 
said, in a genial 
voice that he 
hoped differed 
from his usual 
method of 
speaking, "Gin 
you tell me 
where I shall 
find Mr. Ran- 
some ? " 

"Haven't the 
least idea," 

" Then per- 
haps you can 
tell me wher«e 
I can find his 
wife ? n 

"You are 
talking to her," 
she ' answered, 
" now." 

He searched an inside pocket, and ejaculated 
" Bother ! " Mrs, Ran some waited for an 
explanation of this word of regret , and he 
told her the documents he wished to exhibit 
had been left behind at Lincoln's Inn, " Fact 
of the matter Is." he went on, " vour husband 
has come into a tidy amount of money, and, 
although he won't be able to touch it for some 
time, my people thought he would be glad to 
know at the earliest possible moment," 

" How much ? " she inquired, 

" So far as my memory serves me, it Tuns 
into four or five hundred a year. Of course 
certain formalities have to be gone through, 
but- " 

"That will make him quite independent." 

" Ye— es/' he said, doubtfully, " What I 



should advise him to do. if he asks me. would 
be to put it into this business- You could 
rent the place that's to let next door ; you 
could take on more hands, and eventually turn 
the whole business into a limited company," 

" Sounds attractive," she admitted, " It 
is just what I've often talked of doing, only 
IVe never had enough capital." 

" If you will kindly put yourself into com- 
munication with him and arrange a meeting 
between us, everything can be fixed up 
without delay. There's no need for me to 
waste your time, madam," 

" But it is a question of wasting your 
time," she remarked. " You would much 
rather see him now, I suppose ? " 



idea of what he's like. Im naturally " Very few married ladies have to say it. I 

interested in what I may term favourites of only mention, it because you asked me 7 and 

fortune." because it happens to be true." 

" He's not much to look at," said Mrs. " Are you sure/' he inquired, earnestly, 

Ransome, 4t although, (ot some reason, I used "you're not somewhat too hard on him ? " 


"*■-' iA? 


i mi nYi'ii^Y 


!^\ -<d 



to* think he was. For one thing, he doesn't l£ I .should find that difficult* If he'd only 

take enough trouble ovi-r his personal go away, and stay away, I should be a great 
appearance. And just of late he seems to be deal happier. But you wanted to see him, 
trying to gain a prize for sheer laziness." didn't you ? " 

That doesn't sound to me like what a " If it managed/' 

Mrs. Ransorne stepped aside to a retired 

married lady ought to say about her partner," 



corner where a 
wash-hand bowl 
stood. She re- 
turned with a 
small mirror, 

"If you take 
off that heard, 
James/ 3 she re- 
marked, "and 
glance at this, 
your desire will 
be satisfied ! " 

He strode to 
the doorway and 
returned with a 
distracted air* 
He looked 
steadily at her 
for a few 
minutes; she 
returned his gaze, 

" How did vou 
guess ? " he de- 

"Th ey tele- 
phoned through 
from the shop 
in Seven Sisters 
Hoadto find 
out if it was 
all right," 

11 My dear I n 
he cried- " What 
is to be done 
with a woman 
like you ? I've 
tried all ways to 
make an im- 
pression on your 
mind, and no- 
thing seems to 
answer. And if 
you only knew 
it " — here he 
broke down — 
u Fra just about as hungry as a hunter," 

" My lunch is on the table in there," she 
said j pointing. " You can have half of it. 
When that's done, you've got to gain your 
living if you want to keep alive." She turned 
aside, and her voice softened. " We used to 
be fond of each other, James, once*" 

" We will again," declared Mr. Ransome, 


HEAKU, jAJIL*/ btifc KhMAktCKD,, 'AMJ tJLAfcCti AT 

definitely. " In the future I'm going to be a 
different man." 

" That's .something- But I'd rather you 
promised to be a better one*" 

" It's what I meant to say," he 
explained* " Give us a kiss, like a dear 
old girl." 

u Earn it first ! " she directed. 

by Google 

Original from 

Tkc C 

ase o 

f tke Plain M 



Illustrated fcy Alfred Leete. 

Y one of those coincidences 
for which destiny is sometimes 
responsible, the two very 
opposite plain men whom I 
am going to write about were 
most happily named Mr. Alpha 
and Mr. Omega ; for, owing 

to a difference of temperament, they stood 

far apart, at the extreme ends of the scale. 
In youth, of course , the difference between 

them was not fully apparent ; such differences 

seldom are fully apparent in youth. It first 

made itself felt in a dramatic way, on the 

evening when Mr. Alpha wanted to go to 

the theatre and Mr, Omega didn't. At this 

period they 

were both 

young and 

both married , 

and the two 

couples shared 

a flat together. 

Also, they 

were both 

getting on 

very well in 

their careers, 

by which is 

meant that 

they both had 

spare cash to 

rattle in the 

pockets of 

their admir- 
ably - creased 

"Come to 

the theatre 

with us 


Omega ?" said 

Mr. Alpha, 

; * I don't think we will/' said Mr. Omega, 
" But we particularly want you to/' 

insisted Mr, Alpha. 

" Well, it can't be done/' said Mr, Omega. 
" Got another engagement ? '* 
" No," 


" Then why won't you come ? You don't 
mean to tell me you're hard up ? " 
" Yes, I do," said Mr. Omega. 
* f Then you ought to be ashamed of your- 
self. What have you been doing with your 
money lately ? n 

"I've taken out a biggish life assurance 

policy, and the premiums will be a strain. 

I paid the first yesterday. I'm bled white/ 1 

" Holy Moses ! " exclaimed Mr, Alpha, 

shrugging his shoulders. 

The flat was shortly afterwards to let. 
The exclamation " Holy Moses ! " may be in 
itself quite harmless, and innocuous to friend- 
ship, if it is pronounced in the right, friendly 
tone. Unfortunately Mr, Alpha used it with 

a sarcastic 
inflection, im- 
plying that 
he regarded 
Mr* Omega as 
a prig, a 
fussy old per- 
son, a miser, 
a spoil-sport, 
and, indeed, 
something less 
than a man. 

" You can 
only live your 
life once," 
said Mr. 

And they 
curved gradu~ 
ally apart , 
This was in 


Nearly twenty 
years later — 
that is to say, 
not long since — 1 had a glimpse of Mr. Alpha 
at a Saturday lunch, Do not imagine that 
Mr. Alpha's Saturday lunch took place in 
a miserable garret, amid every circumstance 
of failure and shame. Success in life has 
verv little to do with prudence. It has a 


verv little to do with pruder 

■ UsmgK . TO .i* WWfitffiSITY OF MICHIGAN 



great deal to do with courage, initiative , and 
individual force, and also it is not uncon- 
nected with sheer luck. 

Mr* Alpha had succeeded in life, and the 
lunch at which I assisted took place in a 
remarkably spacious and comfortable house 
surrounded by gardens, greenhouses, garages, 
stables, and all the minions necessary to the 
upkeep thereof, 
Mr. Alpha was 
a jolly, a kind- 
hearted, an im- 
mensely clever, 
and a prolific 
man. I call him 
prolific because 
he had five chil- 
dren. There he 
was, with his 
wife and the five 
children ; and 
they were all 
enjoying the 
lunch and them- 
sel ves to an 
extraor dinary 
degree. It was 
a delight to be 
with them. 

It is necessarily 
a delight to be 
with people who 
are intelligent, 
sympathetic and 

lively, and who have ample money to satisfy 
their desires. Somehow you can hear the gold 
chinking, and the sound is good to the human 
ear. Even the youngest girl had money in 
her nice new purse, to do with it as she liked. 
For Mr, Alpha never stinted. He was 
generous by instinct, and he wanted every- 
body to be happy. In fact, he had turned out 
quite an unusual father. At the same time 
he fell short of being an absolute angel of 
acquiescence and compliance. For instance, 
his youngest child, a girl, broached the subject 
of music at that very lunch. She was four- 
teen, and had shown some of her father's 
cleverness at a school musical examination. 
She was rather uplifted about her music. 

" Can't I take it up seriously, dad ? T7 
she said, with the extreme gravity of her 

" Of course," said he. " The better you 
play, the more we shall all be pleased. Don't 
you think we deserve some reward for all 
weVe suffered under your piano- practising ? " 

She blushed. 

"But I mean seriously^ she insisted. 

"Well, my pet," said he, (t you don't 
reckon you could be a star pianist, do you ? 
Three hundred pounds a concert, and so on ? " ? 
And, as she was sitting next to him, he affec- 
tionately pinched her delicious ear, 

" No/' she admitted, " But I could teach. 
I should like to teach," 

u Teach ! " He repeated the word in a 

changed tone. 
;* Teach! What 
in Heaven's 
name should you 
want to teach 
for ? I don't 
quite see a 
daughter of 
mine teaching." 

No more was 
said on the sub- 

The young 
woman and I are 
on rather con- 
fidential terms. 

" It is a shame, 
isn't it ? " she 
said to me after- 
wards j with feel- 

" Nothing to 

be done?""" I 


said she. M I 

knew there wasn't l\efore I started. The dad 

would never hear of me earning my own 


The two elder girls — twins — had no leaning 
towards music^ and no leaning towards any- 
thing save family affection and social engage- 
ments. They had a grand time, and the 
grander the time they had the keener was the 
delight of Mr. Alpha in their paradisaical 
existence. Truly he was a pearl among fathers. 
The children themselves admitted it, and 
children can judge. The second son wished 
to be a painter. Many a father would have 
saidj " I shall stand none of this nonsense 
about painting. The business is there, and 
into the business you*ll go," But not Mr, 
Alpha. What Mr, Alpha said to his second 
son amounted to this : " I shall be charmed 
for a son of mine to be a painter. Go ahead. 
Don't worry, Don ? t hurry. I will give you 
an ample allowance to keep you afloat 
through the years of struggle. You shall 
not be like other beginners. You shall have 
nothing to thf.f^§| ^-,|^ut your profession, 

Vou eWfehftraftftjiflr" 1 - Instead 




"'it's a shame, isn't it? s she said to me afterwards, 

of you running after the dealers, you shall 
comfortably bide your time until tfte dealers 
run after you/ 3 

This young man of eighteen was precocious 
and extravagant* 

W I say, mater/' he said, 
over the cheese, " can you 
lend me ten pounds ? " 

Mr* Alpha broke in 
sharply : — 

u What are you worry- 
ing your mother about 
money for ? You know 
I won't have it. And I 
won't have you getting 
into debt either." 

" Well, dad, will you 
buy a picture from me ? " 

" Do me a good sketch 
of your mother, and I'll 
give you ten pounds for it." 

" Cash in advance ? M 

" Yea — on your promise. 
But understand, no 

The eldest son, fitly 
enough, was in the busi- 
ness. Not, however, too 
much in the business. He 
put in time at the office 

regularly. He was going 
to be a partner, and the 
business would ultimately 
descend to him. But the 
business wrinkled not his 
hrow. Mr. Alpha was quite 
ready to assume every 
responsibility and care. He 
had brains and energy 
enough, and something 
considerable over. Enough 
over, indeed, to run the 
house and grounds. Mrs. 
Alpha could always sleep 
soundly at night, secure in 
the thought that her 
husband would smooth 
away every difficulty for 
her. He could do all things 
so much more efficiently 
than she could, were it 
tackling a cook or a trades- 
man , or deciding about the 
pattern of flowers in a 

At the finish of the 
luncheon the painter, who 
had been meditative, sud- 
denly raised his glass, 
u Ladies and gentlemen/' he announced, 

with solemnity, 1E I beg to move that father 

be and hereby is a brick," 

11 Carried mm, con./' said the eldest son. 


Original from 





9 fl 

'/^ %f 


"Loud cheers ! " said the more pert of 
the twins. 

And Mr, Alpha was enchanted with his 
home and his home-life. 


That luncheon was the latest and the most 
profound of a long series of impressions 
which had been influencing my mental 
attitude towards the excellent the successful, 
the entirely agreeable Mr. Alpha, I walked 
home, a distance of some three miles, and then 
I walked another 
three miles or so 
on the worn car- 
pet of my study, 
and at last the 
cup of my feel- 
ings began to run 
over, and I sat 
down and wrote 
a letter to my 
friend Alpha* The 
letter was thus 
couched : — 

"My Dear 
Alpha, — 1 have 
long wanted to tell 
you something, 
and now I have 
decided to give 
vent to my desire. 
There are two 
ways of telling 
you. I might take 
the circuitous 
route, by round- 
about and gentle 
phrases, through 

hints and delicately undulating suggestions, 
and beneath the soft shadow of flattering 
cajoleries. Or I might dash straight ahead. 
The latter h the best, perhaps* 

11 You are a scoundrel, my dear Alpha. 
I say it in the friendliest and most brutal 
manner. And you are not merely a scoundrel 
— you arc the most dangerous sort of scoun- 
drel — the smiling, benevolent scoundrel. 

" You know quite well that your house, 
with all that therein is, stands on the edge 

of a precipice, and that 




at any moment a 
landslip might 
topple it over 
into everlasting 
ruin. And yet 
you behave as 
though your 
house was planted 
in the midst of 
a vast and secure 
plain, sheltered 
from every 
imaginable havoc 
I speak meta- 
phorically, of 
course. It is not 
a material preci- 
pice that your 
house stands on 
the edge of ; it is 
a metaphorical 
precipice. But 
the perils symbo- 
lized by that 
precipice are real 

It is, for ex- 
a real 

3° 6 


chauffeur whose real wrist may by a single 
false movement transform you from the 
incomparable Alpha into an item in the 
books of the registrar of deaths. It is a real 
microbe who may at this very instant be 
industriously planning your swift destruction. 
And it is another real microbe who may have 
already made up his or her mind that you 
shall finish your days helpless and incapable 
on the flat of your back. 

" Suppose you to be dead — what would 
happen ? You would leave debts , for although 
you are solvent, you are only solvent because 
you have the knack of always putting your 
hand on money, and death would automa- 
tically make you insolvent. You an* one of 
those brave, jolly fellows who live up to their 
income. It is true that, in deference to 
fashion, you are now insured, but for a trifling 

" Conceive that three years have passed 
and that you are in fact dead. You are 
buried ; you are lying away over there in the 
cold dark. The funeral is done. The friends 
are gone. But your family is just as alive 
as ever. Disaster has not killed it, nor even 
diminished its vitality. It wants just as much 
to eat and drink as it did before sorrow passed 
over it. Look through the sod. Do you see 
that child there playing with a razor ? It is 
your eldest son at grips with your business. 
Do you see that other youngster striving 
against a wolf with a lead pencil for weapon ? 
It is your second son. Well, they are males, 
these twQj and must manfully expect what 
they get. But do you see these four creatures 
with their hands cut off, thrust out into the 
infested desert ? They are your wife and 
your daughters. You cut their hands off. 


and inadequate sum which would not yield 
the hundredth part of your present income. 
It is true that there is your business* But 
your business would be naught without you. 
You are your business. Remove yourself 
from it, and the residue is negligible. Your 
son, left alone with it, would wreck it in a 
year through simple ignorance and clumsi- 
ness ; for you have kept him in his inex- 
perience like a maiden' in her maidenhood. 
You say that you desired to spare him, 
Nothing of the kind. You were merely 
jealous, of your authority, and your indis- 
pensability. You desired fervently that all and 
everybody should depend on yourself. . . . 

You did it so kindly and persuasively. And 
that chiefly is why you are a scoundrel. . . . 

" You educated all these women in a false 
and abominable dot: trine. You made them 
believe, and you forced them to act up to 
the belief, that money was a magic thing, 
and that they had a magic power over it, 
All they had to do was to press a certain 
button, or to employ a certain pretty tonc% 
and money would flow forth like water from 
the rock of Moses. And so far as they were 
concerned money actually did behave in this 
convenient fashion. 

" But all the time you were deceiving them 

by ^?'?fefWW^^.r iests of stran ^ e 



cults deceive their votaries. . . . And further, 
you taught them that money had but one 
use — to be spent. You may — though by a 
fluke — have left a quantity of money to your 
widow, but her sole skill is to spend it. 
She has heard that there is such a thing as 
investing money. She tries to invest it. 
But, bless you, you never said a word to her 
about that, and the money vanishes now as 
magically as it once magically appeared in 
her lap. 

" Yes, you compelled all these four women 
to live so that money and luxury and servants 
and idleness were absolutely essential to them 
if their existence was to be tolerable. And 
what is worse, you compelled them to live 
so that, deprived of magic money, they were 
incapable of existing at all, tolerably or 
intolerably. Either they must expire in 
misery — after their splendid career with you ! 
— or they must earn existence by smiles and 
acquiescences and caresses. (For you cut their 
hands off.) They must beg for their food and 
raiment. There are different ways of begging. 

" But you protest that you did it out of 
kindness, and because you wanted them to 
have a real good time. My good A